Майн Рид
The White Gauntlet
“You’ve no objection to him having a wet, I suppose?” said this man, addressing himself in a side speech to the soldiers who guarded him. “Poor gentleman! He looks a bit thirstyish – doan’t he?”
“You may give him a drink, or two of them, for aught I care,” said the soldier more immediately interested in making answer. “But you’d better not let the officer see you.”
The speaker nodded significantly towards Stubbs.
“I’ll take care o’ that,” said Gregory Garth: for it was he who held up the flagon.
“Here, master,” he continued, gliding close up to the prisoner. “Take a drop o’ this beer. ’Tan’t a quality liquor, I know – such as I suppose ye’ve been used to; but it be tidyish stuff for all that, an’ ’ll do ye good. Bend downish a bit, an’ I’ll bold it to yer lips. Don’t be afeard o’ fallin’ out o’ yer saddle. I’ll put my hand ahind to steady ye. So – now – that’s the way!”
Gregory’s fingers, as he continued to talk, had found their way around the croup of the saddle, and rested upon the wrists of the prisoner – where they were tied together.
The troopers behind, too much occupied by their potations, and the facetiae of the attendants who administered them, saw not that little bit of shining steel, that, in the habile hands of the ex-footpad, was fast severing the cords that confined Henry Holtspur to his place.
“A goodish sort o’ stuff – ain’t it, master?” asked Gregory aloud, as he held the drinking-vessel to the prisoner’s lips. Then adding, in a quick muttered tone, “Now, Master Henry! yer hands are free. Lay hold o’ the reins; an’ wheel round to the right. Stick this knife into the brute; and gallop back over the bridge, as if the devil war after ye.”
“It’s no use, Gregory,” hurriedly answered the cavalier. “The horse is but a poor hack. They’d overtake me before I could make a mile. Ha!” exclaimed he, as if a real hope had suddenly sprung up. “Hubert! I did not think of him. There is a chance. I’ll try it.”
During all their experience in the Flanders campaign, the cuirassiers of Captain Scarthe had never been more taken by surprise, than when their prisoner was seen suddenly clutching the reins of the steed he bestrode – with a quick wrench drawing the animal out of the rank – and, as if a spur had been applied to every square inch of his skin, they saw the old troop horse spring past them, apparently transformed into a fleet courser!
Their surprise was so great, that the drinking cups instantly dropped from their grasp; though for a good while, not one of them was able to recover his reins – which the lubberly attendants had in the most stupid manner hauled over the heads of their horses!
It did not diminish their astonishment to see the escaping prisoner pull up as he approached the bridge; raise his fingers to his lips; and give utterance to a shrill whistle, that came pealing back upon the ears of the crowd.
It did not diminish their astonishment, to hear a horse neighing – as if in reply to that strange signal. On the contrary, it increased it.
Their surprise reached its climax when they saw that, of all their number. Cornet Stubbs was the only one who had the presence of mind – the courage and command of himself and his horse – to start immediately in pursuit!
That he had done so there could be no mistake. The black charger went sweeping past them like a bolt fired from a culverin – close following upon the heels of the fugitive, with Cornet Stubbs seated in the saddle, apparently urging the pursuit.
Alas! for Cornet Stubbs! He was not long allowed to enjoy an honour, as unexpected as unsought; no longer than while his fiery steed was galloping over the ground towards the spot where the troop horse had been hauled up.
As the two steeds came into contiguity, Stubbs became sensible of a strong hand clutching him by the gorget, and jerking him out of his stirrups. The next moment he felt a shock, as if he had been hurled heavily to the earth. He did, by Ged!
Although all this passed confusedly before his mind, the spectators saw every movement with perfect distinctness. They saw the cornet lifted out of his saddle, and pitched into the middle of the road. They saw the cavalier, who had accomplished this feat, change horses with him whom he had unhorsed – without setting foot to the ground; and, amidst the wild huzzas that greeted the achievement, they saw the blade horseman once more firmly seated astride his own steed, and galloping triumphantly away.
The cheer was an utterance of the most enthusiastic joy – in which every individual in the crowd appeared to have had a voice – the discomfited cuirassiers excepted. It was the true English “hurrah,” springing from the heart of a people – ever ready to applaud an exploit of bold and dangerous daring.
Why was it not protracted: for it was not? It subsided almost on the instant that it had arisen – ere its echoes had ceased reverberating from the walls of the adjacent houses!
It was succeeded by a silence solemn and profound; and then, by a murmuring indicative of some surprise – sudden as that which had called forth the shout, but of a less pleasant nature.
No one asked the cause of that silence; though all were inquiring the cause of what had caused it.
The astonishment of the spectators had sprung from the behaviour of the black horseman – which at the crisis appeared singular. Having reached the central point of the bridge, instead of continuing his course, he was seen suddenly to rein up – and with such violence, as to bring his horse back upon his haunches, till his sweeping tail lay scattered over the causeway! The movement was instantly followed by another. The horse, having regained an erect attitude, was seen to head, first in one direction, then into another – as if his rider was still undecided which course he should take.
The spectators at first thought it was some fault of the animal; that he had baulked at some obstacle, and become restive.
In a few seconds they were undeceived; and the true cause of this interruption to the flight of the fugitive became apparent to all – in the waving plumes and glittering helmets that appeared beyond, rising above the cope-stones of the parapet.
Another troop of cuirassiers – larger than the first – was coming along the road in the direction of the bridge. It was Scarthe, and his squadron!
Already had the foremost files readied the termination of the parapet walls; and were advancing at a trot towards the centre of the arch. In that direction Holtspur’s retreat was cut off – as completely as if he had entered within a cul de sac.
He saw it, and had turned to ride back; but by this time the troopers who accompanied Stubbs, stirred to energetic action by the trick played upon them, had recovered their reins, and were making all haste to pursue the prisoner. The corporal who commanded them – for the cornet still lay senseless upon the road – had succeeded in getting them into some sort of a forward movement; and they were now advancing in all haste towards the bridge.
For a moment the black horseman appeared undecided how to act. To gallop in either direction was to rush upon certain death, or certain capture. On each side was a troop of cuirassiers with drawn sabres, and carbines ready to be discharged; while the space between the two squadrons was shut in – partly by the parapet walls of the bridge, and partly by the palings that continued them.
For a man unarmed, however well mounted, to run the gauntlet, in either direction, was plainly an impossibility; and would only have been attempted by one reckless of life, and determined to throw it away.
I have said, that for a moment Holtspur appeared irresolute. The spectators beheld his irresolution with hearts throbbing apprehensively.
It was but for a moment; and then, the black steed was seen suddenly to turn head towards the town, and came trotting back over the bridge!
Some believed that his rider had repented of his rashness, and was about to deliver himself up to the guard, from whom he had escaped. Others were under the impression, that he intended to run the gauntlet, and was choosing the weaker party through which to make the attempt.
Neither conjecture was the correct one: as was proved the instant after – when Holtspur suddenly setting his horse transverse to the direction of the causeway, and giving the noble animal a simultaneous signal by voice, hand, and heel, sprang him over the palings into the meadow below!
The taunting cry shouted back, as he galloped off over the green sward – a cry that more than once had tortured the ears of pursuing Indians – was heard above the vociferous huzza that greeted his escape from Scarthe and his discomfited followers.
The shots fired after him had no effect. In those days a marksman was a character almost unknown; and the bullet of a carbine was scarce more dreaded, than the shaft of the clumsy cross-bow.
The pursuit continued by the cuirassiers along the verdant banks of the Colne, was more for the purpose of saving appearances, than from any hope of overtaking the fugitive. Before his pursuers could clear the obstacle that separated them from the mead, and place themselves upon his track, the “black horseman” appeared like a dark speck – rapidly diminishing in size, as he glided onward towards the wild heaths of Iver.
Volume Three – Chapter Ten
In the days of Charles (the Martyr!) a state prisoner was not such a rara avis as at present. Laud had his list, and Strafford also – that noble but truculent tool of a tyrant – who ended his life by becoming himself a state prisoner – the most distinguished of all.
A gentleman denounced, and taken to the Tower, was anything but a rare event; and created scarce more sensation than would at the present day the capture of a swell-mobsman.
The arrest of Henry Holtspur passed over as a common occurrence. His rescue and escape were of a less common character; though even these served only for a nine days’ wonder in the mind of the general public. There were few who understood exactly how the rescue had been brought about; or how that crowd of “disloyal knaves” – as they were termed by the king’s partisans – had come to be so opportunely assembled in front of the “Rose and Crown.”
No one seemed to know whither the fugitive had betaken himself – not even rumour. It was only conjectured that he had sought concealment – and found it – in that grand hiding place, safe as the desert itself: London. For those attainted with “treasonable proclivities” towards the tyrant king, the great city was, at that time, a safer asylum than any other part of his kingdom.
The cuirassier captain had done all in his power, to hinder the event from obtaining general publicity. He had not reported at head quarters, either the arrest or what followed; and he had been equally remiss of duty, in permitting the circumstances of Holtspur’s rescue to pass without investigation.
He still clung to the hope of being able to effect his recapture; and to that end he employed – though in a clandestine manner – all the influence he could bring to his aid. He despatched secret agents into different parts of the country; and no communication – not even a letter – could enter the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, without Captain Scarthe knowing the nature of its contents.
During this period, his position in the quarters he occupied, may be regarded as somewhat anomalous. A certain intimacy had become established between him and the family of his host. How far it was friendly, on either side, was a question.
A stranger, or superficial observer, might have fancied it so – on the part of Scarthe even cordial.
Ever since the first day of his residence under the roof of Sir Marmaduke, he had held his troopers in strict subordination: so strict as to have given these worthies no slight offence. But Captain Scarthe was a commander not to be trifled with; and his followers knew it.
For every little incident of trouble or annoyance, occurring to the inmates of the mansion, ample apologies were rendered; and it might have been imagined, that the king’s cuirassiers had been sent to Bulstrode as a guard of honour to attend upon its owner, rather than a “billet” to live at his expense!
These delicate attentions to Sir Marmaduke, sprang not from any motive of chivalry or kindness; they were simply designed for the securing of his daughter. Scarthe wanted her heart, as well as her hand. The former, because he loved her, with all the fierce passion of a soul highly gifted, though ill-guided; the latter, because he coveted her fortune: for Marion Wade, in addition to her transcendant charms, was heiress to a noble domain. She was endowed second to none in the shire; for a separate property was hers, independent of the estate of Bulstrode. Scarthe knew it; and for this reason desired to have her hand, along with her heart.
Failing to win the latter, he might still hope to obtain the former; which, with the fortune that accompanied it, would go far towards consoling his disappointed vanity.
Whether loving him or not, he was determined Marion Wade should be his wife; and, if fair means should not serve for the execution of his project, he would not scruple to make use of the contrary. He was ready to avail himself of that terrible secret – of which he had become surreptitiously possessed.
The life of Sir Marmaduke Wade lay upon his lips. The knight was, at that moment, as much in his power, as if standing in the presence of the Star Chamber, with a score of witnesses to swear to his treason.
It needed but a word from Scarthe to place him in that dread presence; and the latter knew it. A sign to his followers, and his host might have been transformed into his prisoner!
He had not much fear, that he would ever be called upon to carry matters to such an ill-starred extreme. He had too grand a reliance upon his own irresistibility with the sex. The man, whom he had originally believed to be his rival, now out of Marion’s sight, appeared to be also out of her mind; and, during his absence, Scarthe had been every day becoming more convinced – his wish being father to the thought – that the relationship between Marion and Holtspur had not been of an amatory character.
The bestowal of the glove might have been a mere complimentary favour, for some service rendered? Such gifts were not uncommon; and tokens worn in hats or helmets were not always emblematic of the tender passion. The short acquaintanceship that had existed between them – for Scarthe had taken pains to inform himself on this head – gave some colour to his conjecture; at least, it was pleasant for him to think so.
Women, in those days, were the most potent politicians. It was a woman who had brought on the war with Spain – another who had caused the interference in Flanders – a woman who had led to our artificial alliance with France – a woman who, then as now, ruled England!
Marion Wade was a woman – just such an one as might be supposed to wield the destinies of a nation. Her political sentiments were no secret to the royalist officer. His own creed, and its partisans, were often the victims of her satirical sallies; and he could not doubt of her republican inclinings.
It might be only that sort of sympathy thus existed between her and Holtspur?
Had he been an eye-witness to her behaviour – throughout that eventful day on which the conspirator had made his escape – he might have found it more difficult to reconcile himself to this pleasant belief. Her sad countenance, as, looking from the lattice, she once more beheld her lover in the power of his enemies – once more in vile bonds – might have proved, to the most uninterested observer, the existence of a care which love alone could create. Could he have seen her during the interval which transpired – between the time when the prisoner was borne off towards his perilous prison, and the return of the mounted messenger who told of his escape – he might have been convinced of an anxiety, which love alone can feel.
With what unspeakable joy had Marion listened to this last announcement! Perhaps it repaid her for the moments of misery, she had been silently enduring.
Deep as had been the chagrin, consequent on that event, Scarthe had found some consolation in the thought, that, henceforth, he should have the field to himself. He would take care that his rival should not again cross the threshold of Sir Marmaduke’s mansion, nor in any way obtain access to his daughter’s presence till he had settled the question of his own acceptance, or rejection.
During all this while, Sir Marmaduke and his people in their behaviour towards their uninvited guests, appeared civil enough.
Though one closely acquainted with the relationship – or narrowly scrutinising the intercourse between them – could not have failed to perceive that this civility was less free, than forced.
That it was so – or rather that a friendship existed even in appearance – needs but little explanation.
Sir Marmaduke’s conduct was ruled by something more than a vague apprehension of danger. The arrest of his fellow-conspirator was significant; and it was not difficult to draw from that circumstance a host of uncomfortable conclusions.
The course he was pursuing towards Scarthe, was not only opposed to his inclinations, but exceedingly irksome to him. There were times when he was almost tempted to throw off the mask; and brave the worst that might come of it. But prudence suggested endurance – backed by the belief that, ere long, things might take a more favourable turn.
The king had been compelled to issue a writ – not for the election of a new parliament, but for the re-assembling of the old one. In that centred the hopes and expectations of the party, of which Sir Marmaduke was now a declared member.
Marion’s politeness to Scarthe was equally dashed with distrust. It had no other foundation than her affection for her father. She loved the latter, with even more than filial fondness: for she was old enough, and possessed of sufficient intelligence, to understand the intrinsic nobility of his character. She was not without apprehension, that some danger overshadowed him; though she knew not exactly what. Sir Marmaduke had not made known to her the secret, that would have explained it. He had forborne doing so, under the fear of causing her unnecessary anxiety; and had simply requested her, to treat the unwelcome intruders with a fair show of respect.
The hint had been enough; and Marion, subduing her haughty spirit, yielded faithful obedience to it.
Scarthe had no reason to complain of any slights received from the daughter of his host. On the contrary, her behaviour towards him appeared so friendly, that there were times when he drew deductions from it, sufficiently flattering to himself.
Thus tranquilly did affairs progress during the first few weeks of Scarthe’s sojourn at Bulstrode – when an event was announced, that was destined to cause an exciting change in the situation. It was a Fête champètre, to be given by Sir Frederick Dayrell, lord of the manor of Fulmere – at which a grand flight of falcons was to form part of the entertainment. The elite of the county was to be present, including Sir Marmaduke Wade and his family, and along with them his military guests – Captain Scarthe and Cornet Stubbs.
Volume Three – Chapter Eleven
The beautiful park of Bulstrode was radiant with the earliest rays of the sun. The dew still glittered upon the grass; and the massive chestnuts threw elongated shadows far down the sloping declivities. The stag, that had been slumbering undisturbed during the night, springing from his soft couch of moss, strode forth to make his morning meal upon the tempting sward. The birds had already chaunted their orison to the opening day; and, forsaking their several perches, were fluttering merrily from tree to tree. All nature was awake.
Though the hour was an early one, the inmates of the mansion seemed not to be asleep. Half-a-dozen saddled horses, under the conduct of as many grooms, had been led forth from the courtyard; and were standing in front of the house, held in hand, as if awaiting their riders.
Two were caparisoned differently from the rest. By the peculiar configuration of their saddles, it was evident, they were intended to be mounted by ladies.
In addition to the grooms in charge of the horses there were other attendants standing or moving about. There were falconers, with blinded hawks borne upon their wrists and shoulders; and finders, with dogs held in leash – each clad in the costume of his craft.
In the boudoir of Marion Wade were two beautiful women. Marion herself was one; Lora Lovelace the other.
The high-crowned beaver hats; the close-fitting habits of green velvet; the gauntlets upon their hands; and the whips in them, proclaimed the two ladies to be those, for whom the sidesaddle horses had been caparisoned.
Both had given the finishing touch to their toilettes, before forsaking their separate chambers. They had met in Marion’s sitting-room – there to hold a moment’s converse, and be ready when summoned to the saddle.
“Walter promises we’ll have fine sport,” said the little Lora, tripping across the chamber, light as a fawn, and gay as a lark. “He says the mere has not been disturbed for long – ever so long – and there have been several broods of herons this season – besides sedge-hens, snipe, and woodcock. We shall find game for goshawks, kestrels, jer-falcons, merlins, and every sort. Won’t it be delightful?”
“Pleasant enough, I dare say – for those who can enjoy it.”
“What, Marion! and will not you – you so fond of falconry, as often to go hawking alone?”
“Ah, Lora! this sport, like many others, may be pleasanter alone, than in company – that is, company one don’t care for.”
“Dear me cousin! you’d make believe, that there isn’t one, among the grand people we are going to meet to-day, worth caring for?”
“Not one – of my knowing.”
“What! our very gallant guest, who is to be our escort – not Captain Scarthe?”
“I should have expected you to say Cornet Stubbs, instead.”
“Ha, ha, ha! No, no! He’s too stupid to be a pleasant companion for me.”
“And Captain Scarthe is too much the opposite to be a pleasant companion for me. In truth, of the two I like Stubbs best – spite of his vulgar patronymic.”
“You are jesting, Marion? Stubbs, Stubbs, – Cornet Stubbs! How would it sound as Colonel Stubbs? Not a whit better. No: not if he were General Stubbs. Mistress Stubbs? I wouldn’t be called so for the world! Lady Stubbs? No, not for a coronet!”
“Between Stubbs, and Scarthe, I see not much to choose.”
“Marion, you mistake. There’s a warlike sound about Scarthe. I could imagine a man of that name to be a hero.”
“And I could imagine a man of that name to be a poltroon – I do.”
“What! not our Captain Scarthe? Why everybody calls him a most accomplished cavalier. Certes, he appears so. A little rude at first, I acknowledge; but since then, who could have acted more cavalierly? And to you, cousin, surely he has been sufficiently attentive, to have won your profound esteem?”
“Say rather my profound detestation. Then you would come nearer speaking the truth: he has won that.”
“You don’t show it, I’m sure. I’ve seen you and Captain Scarthe very happy together – very happy indeed – if one may judge from appearances.”
“Wheels within wheels, coz. A smiling cheek don’t always prove a contented heart; nor is a smooth tongue the truest indication of courtesy. You have seen me polite to Captain Scarthe – nothing more; and for that, I have my reasons.”
“Reasons!”
“Yes; good reasons, dear Lora. But for them, I shouldn’t go hawking to-day – least of all, with him as my companion. Captain Scarthe may be a hero in your eyes, my gay cousin; but he is not the one that’s enthroned within my heart; and you know that.”
“I do – I do, dear Marion. I was only jesting. I know Captain Scarthe is not your hero; and can tell who is. His name begins with Henry, and ends with Holtspur.”
“Ah, there you have named a true hero! But hark you, my little parrot! Don’t be prattling these confidences. If you do, I’ll tell Walter how much you admire Captain Scarthe, or Cornet Stubbs. Of which do you wish him to be jealous?”
“Oh, Marion! not a word to Walter about Stubbs. Do you know I believe, that he’s a little jealous of him already. He don’t like his attentions to me – not a bit, Walter don’t. I’m sure neither do I; but I can’t help them, you know – so long as we must meet three or four times a day. I think the refusal I gave might have been sufficient. It was flat enough. But it hasn’t; and would you believe it, he still continues his attentions, as if nothing had happened between us? Pray don’t make Walter worse; else there might be a fight between them; and then – ”
“The valiant cornet might crack Walter’s crown?”
“No! that he couldn’t; though he is bigger than Walter. He’s not braver, I’m sure. That he isn’t, the ugly impertinent.”
“What! has he been impertinent to you?”
“Not exactly that; but he don’t seem to know much about politeness. How different with Captain Scarthe. He is polite.”
“I suppose – after a fashion.”
“Dorothy Dayrell thinks him perfection. I’m sure that girl’s in love with him. Why is she always riding up to Bulstrode, if it isn’t to have an opportunity of seeing him? I’m sure, it’s neither of us she comes to visit.”
“She’s quite welcome to come – if it be for the purpose you suppose.”
“Ay! and it’s for nothing else than to get into his company, that she gives the hawking party to-day. She’s a dangerous designing creature – that’s what she is.”
“If her design be to catch Captain Scarthe, I hope she may succeed in it. I’m sure I shan’t be the one to stand in her way.”
“Well!” rejoined Lora, “I’m determined to keep my eyes on her this very day; and see how she behaves. Oh! you don’t know how I detest that girl; and why, do you think?”
“Really, I cannot tell.”
“Well! it is because I know that she is your enemy!”
“I never gave her cause!”
“I know that.”
“Perhaps you know why it is so?”
“I do!”
“Tell me?”
“Because you are beautiful.”
“If that be her reason, she should be your enemy as much as mine?”
“Oh, no! I have not the vanity to think so. My beauty is only prettiness; while yours – ah! cousin Marion, you are beautiful in my eyes – a woman! What must you be in the eyes of a man?”
“You’re a simpleton, Little Lora. You are much prettier than I; and as for Dorothy Dayrell – don’t every one call her the belle of the county? I’ve heard it a score of times.”
“And so have I. But what signifies that? Though you’re my senior, Marion, I think I have as much wisdom as you in matters of this kind. Besides I’m only a spectator, and can judge between you. I believe that the ‘belle of the county,’ and the ‘belle of the ball-room,’ are never the most beautiful of those, with whom they are compared. Very often such reputation is obtained, not from beauty, but behaviour; and from behaviour not always the best.”
“Go on in that way, Lora; and we shall esteem you as the Solon of our sex.”
“Nay, nay; I speak only sentiments such as anyone may conceive. You and Dorothy Dayrell are just the two to illustrate them. While everybody calls her the belle of the county, everybody thinks you to be so. Indeed cousin! you are truly beautiful – so beautiful, that even the peasant children of the parish gaze upon you with wonder and delight!”
“Fulsome flatterer!”
“In troth! ’tis true; and that’s why Dorothy Dayrell dislikes you. She wants to be everything; and knows that you take her laurels from her. On the day of the fête, she did everything in her power to captivate the man, whom she pretended to disparage!”
“Holtspur?”
“Yes: I saw her. She used all her arts to attract his attention. Ah, Marion! he had only eyes for you. And now that he is gone, she’s set herself to attract Captain Scarthe. My word! won’t she try to-day? Sweet coz! I don’t want you to act the hypocrite; but can’t you – yes you can – flirt a little with Scarthe – just to give her a chagrin? Oh! I should so like to see that girl suffer what she deserves, – a chapter of humiliation!”
“Foolish child! you know I cannot do that? It is not according to my inclination – and just now less than ever in my life.”
“Only for an hour – to punish her!”
“How should you like to be so punished yourself? Suppose some one, to-day, were to flirt with Walter; or he with some one?”
“Then I’d flirt with Stubbs!”
“Incorrigible coquette! I think you like Walter; but only that: Ah, Lora! you know not what it is to love!”
“Don’t I though – ”
“Mistress Marion?” cried a groom, showing his face at the door of the chamber, “Sir Marm’duke be mounted. They’re only waitin’ for you, and Miss Lora!”
The man, after delivering his message, retired.
“Lora!” whispered Marion, as they issued forth from the room; “not a word of what you know – not to anyone! Promise me that; and I may give you the satisfaction you have asked for.”
During the conversation between the cousins, the two men, who were the chief subjects of it, were engaged in a dialogue of a somewhat kindred character. Scarthe’s sitting apartment was the scene; though neither of the speakers was seated. Both were on their feet; and in costume for the saddle – not military – but merely booted and spurred, with certain equipments covering their dresses, that betokened an intention of going forth upon the sport of falconry.
A splendid jer-falcon – perched upon the back of a chair, and wearing his hood – gave further evidence of this intention; while their gloves drawn on, and their beavers held in hand, told that, like the two ladies, they were only awaiting a summons to sally forth.
Scarthe, following a favourite habit, was pacing the floor; while the cornet stood watching him with attention: as if he had asked counsel from his superior, and was waiting to receive it.
“And so, my gay cornet;” said Scarthe, addressing the subaltern in his usual bantering way, “you’re determined to try her again?”
“Yes, by Ged! – that is if you approve of it.”
