"Would that I were sure of that, Colonel," returned the Prince, still desponding, "which I'm not. However, we've no alternative now but to cross here--if we can. You seem to have a doubt of our being able to make the Passage of Westbury?" "I'm only a little uncertain about it, your Highness." "But sure about that of Framilode?" "Quite; though the flood be of the biggest and deepest." "_Sehr wohl_! with that assurance I'm satisfied. But we must have things secure behind, ere we commence making our wade. And we may as well take the step now. So, Colonel, ride back along the line, detach a rear-guard, and place it under some officer who can be trusted. Lose not a moment! stay at halt here, till you return to me." The commanding officer of the escort, as much alive to the prudence of this precaution as he who gave the orders for it, hastened to carrying them out. Done by detailing off a few of the rearmost files, with directions to remain as they were, while the main body moved forward. Then instructions given to the officer who was to take charge of them; all occupying less than ten minutes' time. After which, Lunsford again placed himself by the side of the Prince, and the march was immediately resumed, down the valley of Flaxley, on for the flooded plain. CHAPTER SIXTY SIX. ON THE TRAIL. Words cannot depict the feelings of Sir Richard Walwyn and Eustace Trevor as they reined up by the burning house. With both it was anguish of the keenest; for they knew who were the incendiaries, and that incendiarism was not the worst of it. They who ruthlessly kindled the flames had, with like ruth, carried off their betrothed ones. And for what purpose? A question neither colonel nor captain could help asking himself, though its conjectural answer was agony. For now more vividly than ever did Sir Richard recall what had been told him of Lunsford's designs upon Sabrina; while Trevor had also heard of Prince Rupert's partiality for Vaga. As they sate in their saddles contemplating the ruin, they felt as might an American frontiersman, returned home to find his cabin ablaze, fired by Indian torch, his wife or daughters borne off in the brutal embrace of the savage. No better fate seemed to have befallen the daughters of Ambrose Powell. White savages, very tigers, had seized upon and dragged them to their lair; it were no worse if red ones had been the captors. Rather would the bereaved lovers have had it so; sooner known their sweethearts buried under that blazing pile than in the arms of the profligate Rupert and Lunsford the "bloody." Only for an instant did they give way to their anguish, or the anger which accompanied it--rage almost to madness. Both were controlled by the necessity of action, and the first wild burst over, action was taken--pursuit of the ravishers.