Waking early from what little sleep he had had, he dressed and armed himself hurriedly, and ran to the stables, where already his men were bustling about getting their horses ready for departure.

Lady had a loose box for herself, and thither straight her master went, wondering as he opened the door of it that he did not hear usual morning welcome.  The place was empty.  He called Stopchase.

‘Where is my mare?’ he said.  ’Surely no one has been fool enough to take her to the water just as we are going to start.’

Stopchase stood and stared without reply, then turned and left the stable, but came back almost immediately, looking horribly scared.  Lady was nowhere to be seen or heard.  Richard rushed hither and thither, storming.  Not a man about the place could give him a word of enlightenment.  All knew she was in that box the night before; none knew when she left it or where she was now.

He ran to his father, but all his father could see or say was no more than was plain to every one:  the mare had been carried off in the night, and that with a skill worthy of a professional horse-thief.

What now was the poor fellow to do?  If I were to tell the truth—­namely, that he wept—­so courageous are the very cowards of this century that they would sneer at him; but I do tell it notwithstanding, for I have little regard to the opinion of any man who sneers.  Whatever he may or may not have been as a man, Richard felt but half a soldier without his mare, and, his country calling him, oppressed humanity crying aloud for his sword and arm, his men waiting for him, and Lady gone, what was he to do?

‘Never heed, Dick, my boy,’ said his father.—­It was the first time since he had put on man’s attire that he had called him Dick,—­ ’Thou shalt have my Oliver.  He is a horse of good courage, as thou knowest, and twice the weight of thy little mare.’

’Ah, father! you do not know Lady so well as I. Not Cromwell’s best horse could comfort me for her.  I must find her.  Give me leave, sir; I must go and think.  I cannot mount and ride, and leave her I know not where.  Go I will, if it be on a broomstick, but this morning I ride not.  Let the men put up their horses, Stopchase, and break their fast.’

‘It is a wile of the enemy,’ said Stopchase.  ’Truly, it were no marvel to me were the good mare at this moment eating her oats in the very stall where we have even but now in vain sought her.  I will go and search for her with my hands.’

‘Verily,’ said Mr. Heywood with a smile, ’to fear the devil is not to run from him!—­How much of her hay hath she eaten, Stopchase?’ he added, as the man returned with disconsolate look.

‘About a bottle, sir,’ answered Stopchase, rather indefinitely; but the conclusion drawn was, that she had been taken very soon after the house was quiet.

The fact was, that since the return of their soldiers, poor watch had been kept by the people of Redware.  Increase of confidence had led to carelessness.  Mr. Heywood afterwards made inquiry, and had small reason to be satisfied with what he discovered.