“We meet again,” he whispered. “Ever since we parted I have had a premonition of this encounter. I have much for your private ear.”
But it was not told, for the leader of the hobbledehoys, the fellow with the mask and nightcap, was again in the kitchen. It looked as if he had been given instructions by someone, for he shouted, as a man does when he is uncertain of himself and would keep up his courage.
“Gentlefolk all, there are vipers among us tonight. This man who calls himself a duke’s agent, and the hedge schoolmaster at his elbow. They are naught but lousy Jacobites and ’tis our business as good Englishmen to strip and search them.”
The others of his party cried out in assent, and there was a measure of support from the company at large. But before a man could stir the tutor spoke.
“Bad law!” he said. “I and, for all I know, the other gentleman are inoffensive travellers moving on our lawful business. You cannot lay hand on us without a warrant from a justice. But, sirs, I am not one to quibble about legality. This fellow has insulted me grossly and shall here and now be brought to repentance. Put up your hands, you rogue.”
The tutor had suddenly become a fearsome figure. He had risen from his chair, struggled out of his coat, and, blowing like a bull, was advancing across the floor on his adversary, his great doubled fists held up close to his eyes. The other gave ground.
“I do not fight with scum,” he growled. But as the tutor pressed on him, his hand went to his sword.
He was not permitted to draw it. “You will fight with the natural weapon of Englishmen,” his assailant cried, and caught the sword strap and broke it, so that the weapon clattered into a corner and its wearer spun round like a top. The big man seemed to have the strength of a bull. “Put up your hands,” he cried again, “or take a coward’s drubbing.”
The company was now in high excitement, and its sympathies were mainly against the challenged. Seeing this, he made a virtue of necessity, doubled his fists, ducked and got in a blow on the tutor’s brisket. The latter had no skill, but immense reach and strength and the uttermost resolution. He simply beat down the other’s guard, reckless of the blows he received, and presently dealt him such a clout that he measured his length on the floor, whence he rose sick and limping and departed on the arm of a friend. The victor, his cheeks mottled red and grey and his breath whistling like the wind in a chimney, returned amid acclamation to the fireside, where he accepted a glass of Alastair’s punch.
For a moment the haggardness was wiped from the man’s face, and it shone with complacence. His eyes shot jovial but martial glances at the company.
“We have proved our innocence,” he whispered to Alastair. “Had you used sword or pistol you would have been deemed spy and foreigner, but a bout of fisticuffs is the warrant of the true-born Englishman.”
VI
Introduces the Runaway Lady
Alastair stole a glance at his neighbour’s face and found it changed from their first meeting. It had lost its dumb misery and—for the moment—its grey pallor. Now it was flushed, ardent, curiously formidable, and, joined with the heavy broad shoulders, gave an impression of truculent strength.
“I love to bandy such civilities,” said the combatant. “I was taught to use my hands by my uncle Andrew, who used to keep the ring at Smithfields. We praise the arts of peace, but the keenest pleasure of mankind is in battles. You, sir, follow the profession of arms. Every man thinks meanly of himself for not having been a soldier.”
He helped himself to the remainder of the bowl of punch, which he gulped down noisily. Alastair was in two minds about his new acquaintance. The man’s simplicity and courage and honest friendliness went to his heart, but he was at a loss in which rank of society to place him. Mr. Johnson spoke with a queer provincial accent—to him friend was “freend” and a shire a “sheer”—and his manners were those of a yokel, save that they seemed to spring from a natural singularity rather than from a narrow experience, for at moments he had a fine dignity, and his diction was metropolitan if his pronunciation was rustic. The more the young man looked at the weak heavy-lidded eyes and the massive face, the more he fell under their spell. The appearance was like a Moorish palace—outside, a bleak wall which had yet a promise of a treasure-house within.
“What of your errand?” he asked. “When we last parted you were in quest of a runaway lady.”
“My quest has prospered, though I have foundered a good horse over it, and when I have paid for this night’s lodging, shall have only a quarter-guinea to take me back to Chastlecote. Why, sir, since you are kind enough to interest yourself in this affair, you shall be told of it. Miss Grevel is duly and lawfully wed and is now my lady Norreys. Sir John has gone north on what he considers to be his duty. He is, as you are aware, a partisan of the young Prince. My lady stays behind; indeed she is lodged not a mile from this inn in the house of her mother’s brother, Mr. Thicknesse.”
“Then you are easier in mind about the business?”
“I am easier in mind. The marriage was performed as decently as was possible for a thing so hastily contrived. He has behaved to the lady in all respects with courtesy and consideration, and he has shown the strength of his principles by departing at once to the camp of his Prince. I am disposed to think better of his character than I had been encouraged
