There was a considerable number of company in the Park when he entered
it, but, his present state of mind inducing him to avoid society, he
kept aloof from the more frequented walks towards Westminster and
Whitehall, and drew to the north, or, as we should now say, the
Piccadilly verge of the enclosure, believing he might there enjoy, or
rather combat, his own thoughts unmolested.
In this, however, Lord Glenvarloch was mistaken; for, as he strolled
slowly along with his arms folded in his cloak, and his hat drawn over
his eyes, he was suddenly pounced upon by Sir Mungo Malagrowther, who,
either shunning or shunned, had retreated, or had been obliged to
retreat, to the same less frequented corner of the Park.
Nigel started when he heard the high, sharp, and querulous tones of
the knight's cracked voice, and was no less alarmed when he beheld his
tall thin figure hobbling towards him, wrapped in a thread-bare cloak,
on whose surface ten thousand varied stains eclipsed the original
scarlet, and having his head surmounted with a well-worn beaver,
bearing a black velvet band for a chain, and a capon's feather for an
ostrich plume.
Lord Glenvarloch would fain have made his escape, but, as our motto
intimates, a leveret had as little chance to free herself of an
experienced greyhound. Sir Mungo, to continue the simile, had long ago
learned to run cunning, and make sure of mouthing his game.
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