In less than threescore seconds after the affair began, Reginald Trevor and his attendant were unhorsed, disarmed, and held as in the hug of a couple of bears. "I'll let ye go," said Rob to his prisoner, after some rough handling, "when ye say you won't take advantage o' my gen'rosity by renewin' the attack. Bah!" he added, without waiting for response, "I'll put that out o' yer power." Saying which, he caught up the officer's sword, and broke it across his knee, at the same time releasing him. The blade of the attendant was treated likewise, and both master and man were permitted to rise to their feet, feeling vanquished as weaponless. "You can take yourselves off," sneeringly said the deer-stealer; "an' as ye talked 'bout bein' in Ross 'fore nightfall, you'll do well to make quick time." Not a word spoke Reginald Trevor in reply, nor thanks for the mercy shown him. Too angry was he for that; his anger holding him speechless because of its very impotence. In sullen silence he regained the bridle of his horse--like himself having lost spirit by copious bleeding of the nose--climbed back into the saddle, and continued on down Cat's Hill, his varlet behind him, both swordless, and yet more crestfallen than when they rode out through the gate of Hollymead Park. "We're in for it now, Win," said Rob, to the cadger's sister, after seeing them depart. "An' we've got to look out for danger. I'm sorry 'bout you havin' to share it; but maybe 'twon't be so much, after all. Once Sir Richard gets here, an' the fightin' begins, as it surely must soon, trust me for takin' care o' ye." "I will--I do, Rob!" And again the great arms were thrown around his neck, while upon his lips were showered a very avalanche of kisses. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. LOOKING FORWARD TO A FIGHT. Some truth was there in the report that had reached Rob Wilde, of the King being chased out of London. Though not literally chased, after his display in the House of Commons, ludicrous as unconstitutional, he found the metropolis too hot for him. Moreover, there was a whisper about impeaching the Queen; and this arch _intrigante_, notwithstanding her high notions of Royal right, was now in a fit of Royal trembles. Strafford had lost his head, Laud was in prison, likely to lose his; how knew she but that those bloodthirsty islanders might bring her own under the axe? They had done as much for a Queen more beautiful than she. Mobs daily paraded the streets, passing the Palace; the cry, "No bishops!" came in through its windows, and Charles trembled as he thought of his father's significant epigram, "No bishop, no king." So out of Whitehall they slipped--first to Windsor to pack up; the Queen, in fine, clearing out of the country, by Dover, to Holland.