In a trice they were freed from their fastenings, and armed with the weapons taken from the party of Cavaliers that had been caught by the head of the pitch. Riding their horses, too, after a quick exchange--in short, everything reversed--then away from their halting-place with cheers and at charging gallop, no longer prisoners, but pursuers! Never did the chances and changes of war receive better or more singular illustration than upon that autumn's morn along the road between Acornbury and Goodrich. At early daybreak a Royalist host, in noisy jubilance, conducting a score of dejected captives towards Hereford; and, before the sun had attained meridian height, a like number of prisoners going in the opposite direction, under guard of Parliamentary soldiers! Some difference, however, in the mode of march and rate of speed: the former leisurely slow, as a triumphal procession; the latter a hot, eager pursuit that permitted no tarrying by the way. Nor was there on the return passage either jesting or laughter; instead, now and then shouts in stern, angry tone--the demand, "Surrender!" as some fleeing Cavalier, cursed with a short-winded horse, had to pull up, and call out "Quarter!" So on to the gates of Goodrich Castle, into which Lingen, _malgre_ his indifferent mount, contrived to enter, quick closing them behind. The pursuit could go no farther, nor the pursuers make entrance after him. In that strong fortress he might bid defiance to cavalry--even the best artillery of the time. Famine only had he to fear. But to so shut him up--so humiliate him--was a triumph for Kyrle, his ancient foe; and as the latter turned away from the defying walls, the smile upon his face told how greatly it gratified him. A _revanche_ he had gained for some wrongs Lingen had done his father; and, now that he was himself to rule in Monmouth, he had hopes, ere long, to make a real revenge of it, by razing Goodrich Castle to its foundation stones. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. IN CAROUSAL. "We'll drink--drink, And our goblets clink, Quaffing the blood-red wine; The wenches we'll toast, And the Roundheads we'll roast, The Croppies, and all their kind." "A capital song! And right well you've sung it, Sir Thomas. _Herrlich_!" "Your Highness compliments me." "_Nein--nein_. But who composed the ditty? It's new to me." "Sir John Dertham. He who wrote the verses about Waller, and their defeat at Roundway Down-- "`Great William the Con- So fast did he run, That he left half his name behind him.' "Your Highness may remember them?" "Ha-ha-ha! That do I; and Sir John himself. A true Cavalier, and no better company over the cup. But come, gentlemen! Let us act up to the spirit of the song. Fill goblets, and toast the wenches!" "The wenches! The wenches!" came in responsive echo from all sides of the table, as the wine went to their lips.