“How’s that?”
“Freshly horsed,” explains Joan.
The troopers—they were all around her by this—swore ’twas a lie; but luckily, being down in the hollow, could not see over the next ridge. They began a string of questions all together: but at last a little tun bellied sergeant call’d “Silence!” and asked the girl, “did she loan the fellow a horse?”
Here I will quote her again:—
“ ‘Sir, to thee,’ I answer’d, ‘no loan at all, but fair swap for our Grey Robin.’
“ ‘That’s a lie,’ he says; ‘an’ I won’t believe thee.’
“ ‘Might so well,’ says I; ‘but go to stable, an’ see for thysel’.’ (Never had grey horse to my name, Jack; but, thinks I, that’s his’n lookout.)”
They went, did these simple troopers, to look at the stable, and sure enough, there was no Grey Robin. Nevertheless, some amongst them had logic enough to take this as something less than proof convincing, and spent three hours and more ransacking the house and barn, and searching the tor and the moors below it. I learn’d too, that Joan had come in for some rough talk—to which she put a stop, as she told me, by offering to fight any man Jack of them for the buttons on his buff-coat. And at length, about sundown, they gave up the hunt, and road away over the moors toward Warleggan, having (as the girl heard them say) to be at Braddock before night.
“Where is this Braddock?”
“Nigh to Lord Mohun’s house at Boconnoc: seven mile away to the south, and seven mile or so from Bodmin, as a crow flies.”
“Then go I must,” cried I: and hereupon I broke out with all the trouble that was on my mind, and the instant need to save these gallant gentlemen of Cornwall, ere two armies should combine against them. I told of the King’s letter in my breast, and how I found the Lord Stamford’s men at Launceston; how that Ruthen, with the vanguard of the rebels, was now at Liskeard, with but a bare day’s march between the two, and none but I to carry the warning. And “Oh, Joan!” I cried, “my comrade I left upon the road. Brighter courage and truer heart never man proved, and yet left by me in the rebels’ hands. Alas! that I could neither save nor help, but must still ride on: and here is the issue—to lie struck down within ten mile of my goal—I, that have traveled two hundred. And if the Cornishmen be not warned to give fight before Lord Stamford come up, all’s lost. Even now they be outnumber’d. So lift me, Joan, and set me astride Molly, and I’ll win to Bodmin yet.”
“Reckon, Jack, thou’d best hand me thy letter.”
Now, I did not at once catch the intent of these words, so simply spoken; but stared at her like an owl.
“There’s horse in stall, lad,” she went on, “though no Grey Robin. Tearaway’s the name, and strawberry the color.”
“But, Joan, Joan, if you do this—feel inside my coat here, to the left—you will save an army, girl, maybe a throne! Here ’tis, Joan, see—no, not that—here! Say the seal is that of the Governor of Bristol, who stole it from me for a while: but the handwriting will be known for the King’s: and no hand but yours must touch it till you stand before Sir Ralph Hopton. The King shall thank you, Joan; and God will bless you for’t.”
“Hope so, I’m sure. But larn me what to say, lad: for I be main thick witted.”
So I told her the message over and over, till she had it by heart.
“Shan’t forgit, now,” she said, at length; “an’ so hearken to me for a change. Bide still, nor fret thysel’. Here’s pasty an’ oat cake, an’ a keg o’ water that I’ll stow beside thee. Pay no heed to feyther, an’ if he wills to get drunk an’ fight wi’ Jan Tergagle—that’s the cat—why let’n. Drunk or sober, he’s no ’count.”
She hid the letter in her bosom, and stepp’d to the door. On the threshold she turned—
“Jack—forgot to ax: what be all this bloodshed about?”
“For Church and King, Joan.”
“H’m: same knowledge ha’ I o’ both—an’ that’s naught. But I dearly loves fair play.”
She was gone. In a minute or so I heard the trampling of a horse: and then, with a scurry of hoofs, Joan was off on the King’s errand, and riding into the darkness.
Little rest had I that night; but lay awake on my bracken bed and watched the burning peat-turves turn to grey, and drop, flake by flake, till only a glowing point remained. The door rattled now and then on the hinge: out on the moor the light winds kept a noise persistent as town dogs at midnight: and all the while my wound was stabbing, and the bracken pricking me till I groaned aloud.
As day began to break, the old man picked himself up, yawned and lounged out, returning after a time with fresh turves for the hearth. He noticed me no more than a stone, but when the fire was restack’d, drew up his chair to the warmth, and breakfasted on oat cake and a liberal deal of liquor. Observing him, the black cat uncoil’d, stretch’d himself, and climbing to his master’s knee, sat there purring, and the best of friends. I also judged it time to breakfast: found my store: took a bite or two, and a pull at the keg, and lay back—this time to sleep.
When I woke, ’twas high noon. The door stood open, and outside on the wall the winter sunshine was lying, very bright and clear. Indoors, the old savage had been drinking steadily; and still sat before the fire, with the cat on one knee, and his keg on the other. I sat up and strain’d my ears. Surely, if Joan had not failed, the royal generals would march out and give battle at once: and surely, if they were fighting, not ten miles away, some
