Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. As they passed beneath the thick trees that shade the road to Dollis Hill, the gloom was almost impenetrable. Men had tried that before, but never until now had they been quick enough. He had not proceeded far when he encountered Sir Rowland, who, having missed his attendant, had returned to look after him. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. You came out like an ant for your nuptial flight.
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