At length, chiefly through the exertions of the presbyterian preachers and the common council of the city of London, the peace-party was defeated, and a vigorous levying and pressing of troops began anew.  So the hour had come for Richard to mount.  His men were all in health and spirits, and their vacancies had been filled up.  Lady was frolicsome, and Richard was perfectly well.

The day before they were to start he took the mare out for a gallop across the fields.  Never had he known her so full of life.  She rushed at hedge and ditch as if they had been squares of royalist infantry.  Her madness woke the fervour of battle in Richard’s own veins, and as they swept along together, it grew until he felt like one of the Arabs of old, flashing to the harvest field of God, where the corn to be reaped was the lives of infidels, and the ears to be gleaned were the heads of the fallen.  That night he scarcely slept for eagerness to be gone.

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.’