"'Tis the Wildairs cronies," Roxholm heard him say to his Lordship of
Dunstanwolde. "I hunt but seldom, purely through disgust of their
unseemliness."
"Wildairs!" exclaimed my Lord Dunstanwolde.
"Ay," answered Twemlow, turning his horse slightly and averting his
eyes; "and there cometh my reputable kinsman, Sir Jeoffry, even as we
speak."
Roxholm turned to look with some stir of feeling in his breast, since
this was the man who had so early roused in him an emotion of anger and
rebellion. Across the field came pounding a great black horse, a fine
big-boned brute; on him rode a tall, heavy man who must once have been
of the handsomest, since even yet, in spite of years, bloated face, and
careless attire, he retained a sort of dissolute beauty. He was of huge
frame and had black eyes, a red mouth, and wore his own thick and
curling though grizzled black hair.
He rode with a dare-devil grace, and his cronies greeted him with a
shout.
"He has the look of it," thought Roxholm, remembering the old stories;
but the next instant he gave a start. Across the field beyond, another
rider followed galloping, and at this moment came over the high hedge
like a swallow, and, making the leap, gave forth a laughing shout.
Roxholm sat and stared at the creature. 'Twas indeed a youthful figure,
brilliant and curious to behold in this field of slovenly clad
sportsmen.
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