"That indeed. And how you got out of it! Your tale of his cowardice, and threat to make short work with him, were so well affected I could scarce keep from bursting into laughter. But what a simpleton that fellow who had command of the bridge guard! Was he one of those we cut down, think you?" "I fancy he was, and fear it. Among my late comrades there were many I liked less than he." "And the Cornet, to whom you gave credit for making such good use of his heels. Has he escaped?" "I've no doubt he's justified what I said of him by using them again. He's one that has a way of it. I suspect a great many of them got off on the other side--more than we've netted. But we shall know in the morning when we muster the birds taken, and beat up the covers where some will be in hiding. Hopelessly for them, as I'm acquainted with every hole and corner in Monmouth." There was a short interval of silence, while Kyrle, as host, leant over the table, took up a flagon of sack, and replenished their empty cups. On again turning to his guest he could see that same expression, which had led to him thinking him downhearted. Quite unlike what face of man should be wearing who had so late gained glory--reaped a very harvest of laurels--on more than one battlefield. The exciting topics just discoursed upon had for a time chased it away, but there it was once more. "Bless me, Walwyn! what is the matter with you?" asked Kyrle, as he pushed the refilled goblet towards him. "You could not look more sadly solemn if I were Prince Rupert, and you my prisoner. Well, old comrade," he went on, without waiting for explanation, "if what's troubling you be a secret, I shan't press you to answer. A love affair, I suppose, so won't say another word." "It _is_ a love affair in a way." "Well, Walwyn! you're the last man I'd have looked for to get his heart entangled--" "You mistake, Kyrle. It has nothing to do with my heart--in the sense you're thinking of." "Whose heart then, or hearts? For there must be a pair of them." "You know young Trevor?" "I know all the Trevors--at least by repute." "He I refer to is Eustace--son of Sir William, by Abergavenny." "Ah! him I'm not personally acquainted with; though he's been here for several days--in prison. Lingen's men took him at Hollymead House, near Ruardean; brought him on to Monmouth on their way to Beachley; and going back have carried him with them to Goodrich Castle. They left but yesterday, late in the evening. He's got a wound, I believe." "Yes. It's about that I'm uneasy. Can you tell me anything as to the nature of it? Dangerous, think you?" "That I can't say, not having seen him myself. Some one spoke of his arm being in a sling. Likely it's but a sword cut, or the hack of a halbert. But why are you so concerned about him, Dick? He's no relative of yours."