"_The black horseman!--the black horseman_!" was the cry that rose up from the crowd; while the rustics rushed up to the top of the moat to give the new comer a welcome.

"_The black horseman! huzza_!" proclaimed a voice, with that peculiar intonation that suggests a general cheer--which was given, as the cavalier, riding into their midst, drew his steed to a stand.

"_They_ know him, at least," remarked the fair Dayrell, with a toss of her aristocratic head. "How popular he appears to be! Can any one explain it?"

"It's always the way with _new_ people," said a sarcastic gentleman who stood near, "especially when they make their _debut_ a little mysteriously. The rustic has a wonderful relish for the unknown."

Marion stood silent. Her eye sparkled with pride, on beholding the homage paid to her own heart's hero. The sneering interrogatories of Dorothy Dayrell she answered only in thought.

"Grand and n.o.ble!" was her reflection. "That is the secret of his popularity. Ah! the instincts of the people rarely err in their choice.

He is true to _them_. No wonder they greet him as their G.o.d!"

For Marion, herself, a sweet triumph was in store.

The curiosity of the crowd, that had collected on the arrival of the black horseman, was pa.s.sing away. The people had returned to their sports; or, with admiring looks, were following the famous steed to his stand under the trees. From an instinct of delicacy, peculiar to the country people, they had abandoned the cavalier to the companionship of his proper host--who was now conducting him towards the promised presentation.

They had arrived within a few paces of the spot where Marion was standing. Her face was averted: as if she knew not who was advancing.

But her heart told her he was near. So, too, the whisperings of those who stood around. She dared not turn towards him. She dreaded to encounter his eye, lest it might look slightingly upon her.

That studied inattention could not continue. She looked towards him at last. Her gaze became fixed, not upon his face, but, upon an object which appeared conspicuous upon the brow of his beaver--_a white gauntlet_!

Joy supreme! Words could not have spoken plainer. The token had been taken up, and treasured. Love's challenge had been accepted!

Volume One, Chapter XVI.

A glove, a ribbon, a lock of hair, in the hat of a gentleman, was but the common affectation of the cavalier times; and only proclaimed its wearer the recipient of some fair lady's favour. There were many young gallants on the ground, who bore such adornments; and therefore no one took any notice of the token in the hat of Henry Holtspur--excepting those for whom it had a particular interest.

There were two who felt this interest; though from different motives.

They were Marion Wade, and Lora Lovelace. Marion identified the glove with a thrill of joy; and yet the moment after she felt fear. Why? She feared it _might be_ identified by others. Lora saw it with surprise.

Why? Because it _was_ identified. At the first glance Lora had recognised the gauntlet; and knew it to have belonged to her cousin.

It was just this, that the latter had been dreading. She feared not its being recognised by any one else--not even by her father. She knew the good knight had more important matters upon his mind, and could not have told one of her gloves from another. But far different was it with her cousin; who having a more intelligent discrimination in such trifles, would be likely, just then, to exercise it.

Marion's fears were fulfilled. She perceived from Lora's looks that the gauntlet--cruel and conspicuous tell-tale--was under her eye and in her thoughts.

"It is yours, Marion!" whispered the latter, pointing towards the plumed hat of the cavalier, and looking up, with an air more affirmative than enquiring.

"Mine! what, Lora? Yonder black beaver and plumes? What have I to do with them?"

"Ah! Marion, you mock me. Look under the plumes. What see you there?"

"Something that looks like a lady's glove. Is it one, I wonder?"

"It is, Marion."

"So it is, in troth! This strange gentleman must have a mistress, then.

Who would have thought of it?"

"It is yours, cousin."

"Mine? My glove--do you mean? You are jesting, little Lora?"

"It is you who jest, Marion. Did you not tell me that you had lost your glove?"

"I did. I dropped it. I must have dropped it--somewhere."

"Then the gentleman must have _picked it up_?" rejoined Lora, with significant emphasis.

"But, dear cousin; do you really think yonder gauntlet is mine?"

"O Marion, Marion! _you know it is yours_?"

Lora spoke half upbraidingly.

"How do you know you are not wronging me?" rejoined Marion, in an evasive tone. "Let me take a good look at it. Aha! My word, Lora, I think you are right. It does appear, as if it were my gauntlet--at least it is very like the one I lost the other day, when out a-hawking; and for the want of which my poor skin got so sadly scratched. It's wonderfully like my glove!"

"Yes; so like, that it is the same."

"If so, how came it yonder?" inquired Marion, with an air of apparent perplexity.

"Ah, how?" repeated Lora.

"He must have found it in the forest?"

"It is very impudent of him to be wearing it then."

"Very; indeed, very."

"Suppose any one should recognise it as yours? Suppose uncle should do so?"

"There is no fear of that," interrupted Marion. "I have worn these gloves only twice. You are the only one who has seen them on my hands.

Father does not know them. You won't tell him, Lora?"

"Why should I not?"

"Because--because--it may lead to trouble. May be this strange gentleman has no idea to whom the glove has belonged. He has picked it up on the road somewhere; and stuck it in his hat--out of caprice, or conceit. I've heard many such favours are borne with no better authority. Let him keep it, and wear it--if it so please him. I care not--so long as he don't know whose it is. Don't you say anything about it to any one. If father should know, or Walter--ah! Walter, young as he is, would insist upon fighting with him; and I have no doubt that this _black horseman_ would be a very dangerous antagonist."

"Oh! Marion," cried Lora, alarmed at the very thought of such a contingency. "I shall not mention it--nor you. Do not for the world!

Let him keep the glove, however dishonourably he may have come to it. I care not, dear cousin--so long as it does not compromise _you_."

"No fear of that," muttered Marion, in a confident tone, apparently happy at having so easily escaped from a dilemma she had been dreading.

The whispered conversation of the cousins was at this moment interrupted by the approach of Walter, conducting the cavalier into the midst of the distinguished circle.

The youth performed his office of introducer with true courtly grace, keeping his promise to all; and in a few seconds Henry Holtspur had added many new names to the list of his acquaintances.

It is no easy part to play--and play gracefully--that of being conspicuously presented; but the same courage that had distinguished the cavalier in his encounter with Garth and his footpads, was again exhibited in that more imposing--perhaps more dangerous--presence.