"A fine story, Master Inch," laughed the Corporal. "And is there no
reward for the capture of your pig-faced, hairy, blue-skinned royal
prince disguised as a common highwayman?"
"Aye, a reward of a hundred guineas," said Mr. Inch, in a whisper that
was hardly audible above the murmur of the wind. "A hundred guineas
for the capture of Beau Brocade."
The Corporal gave a long significant whistle.
"And no one bold enough to attempt the capture?" he said derisively.
Mr. Inch shook his head sadly.
"No one could do it single-handed; the rascal is cunning as well as bold,
and..."
But at this point even Mr. Inch's voluble tongue was suddenly and
summarily silenced. The words died in his throat; his bell, the badge of
his important public office, fell with a mighty clatter on the ground.
A laugh, a long, loud, joyous, mirthful laugh, rang clear as a silver
gong across the lonely Moor. Such a laugh as would make anyone's
heart glad to hear, the laugh of a free man, of a man who is
whole-hearted, of a man who has never ceased to be a boy.
And pompous Mr. Inch slowly turned on his heel, as did also the young
Corporal, and both gazed out upon the Heath; the patient little squad of
soldiers too, all fixed their eyes upon one spot, just beyond John Stich's
forge and cottage, not fifty yards away.
There, clearly outlined against the could-laden sky, was the graceful
figure of a horse and rider; the horse, a sleek chestnut thoroughbred,
which filled all the soldiers' hearts with envy and covetousness; the
rider, a youthful, upright figure, whose every movement betokened
strength of limb and elasticity of muscle, the very pose a model of ease
and grace, the shoulders broad; the head, with a black mask worn over
the face, was carried high and erect.
In truth it was a goodly picture to look upon, with that massive band of
white clouds, and the little patches of vivid blue as a rich, shimmering
dome above it, the gold-tipped bracken, the purple heather all around,
and far away as a mist-covered background, the green-clad hills and
massive Tors of Derbyshire.
So good a picture was it that the tardy September sun peeped through
the clouds and had a look at that fine specimen of eighteenth-century
English manhood, then paused awhile, perchance to hear again that
mirthful, happy laugh.
Then game a gust of wind, the sun retreated, the soldiers gasped, and lo!
before Mr. Inch or Mr. Corporal had realized that the picture was made
of flesh and blood, horse and rider has disappeared, there, far out across
the Heath, beyond the gorse and bramble and the budding heather, with
not a handful of dusk to mark the way they went.
Only once from far, very far, almost from fairyland, there came, like
the echo of a sliver bell, the sound of that mad, merry laugh.
"Beau Brocade, as I live!" murmured Mr. Inch, under his breath.
Chapter II
The Forge of John Stich
John Stich too had heard that laugh; for a moment he paused in his
work, straightened his broad back and leant his heavy hammer upon the
anvil, whilst a pleasant smile lit up his bronzed and rugged
countenance.
"There goes the Captain," he said, "I wonder now what's tickling him.
Ah!" he added with a short sigh, "the soldiers, maybe. He doesn't like
soldiers much, doesn't the Captain."
He sighed again and looked across to where, on a rough wooden bench,
sat a young man with head resting on his hand, his blue eyes staring
moodily before him. The dress this young man wore was a counterpart
of that in which John himself was arrayed; rough worsted stockings,
thick flannel shirt with sleeves well tucked up over fine, muscular arms,
and a large, greasy, well-worn leather apron, denoting the blacksmith's
trade. But though the hands and face were covered with grime, a close
observer would soon have noticed that those same hands were slender
and shapely, the fingers long, the nails neatly trimmed, whilst the face,
anxious and careworn though it was, had a look of habitual command,
of pride not yet crushed out of ken.
John Stich gazed at him for a while, whilst a look of pity and anxiety
saddened his honest face. The smith was a man of few words; he said
nothing then, and presently the sound of his hammer upon the anvil
once more filled the forge with its pleasant echo. But though John's
tongue was slow, his ear was quick, and in one moment he had
perceived the dull thud made by the Corporal's squad as, having parted
from Mr. Inch at the cross-roads, the soldiers ploughed their way
through the mud round the cottage and
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