In the afternoon the rain descended again and the road passed over a wide heath, which had been blackened by some autumn fire so that the shores of its leaden pools were like charcoal, and skeleton coverts shook their charred branches in the wind. The scene was a desolation, but he viewed it with calm eyes, for a strange peace was creeping into his soul. He turned in the saddle, and saw six yards behind him Johnson jogging wearily along, his heavy shoulders bowed and his eyes fixed dully on his horse’s neck. The man must be near the limits of his strength, he thought. … Once again he had one of his sudden premonitions. Sir John Norreys was close at hand, for he had not yet stopped for a meal and he had now been on the road for twelve hours. The conviction grew upon him, and made him urge his tired beast to a better pace. Somewhere just in front was the meeting-place where the ordeal was appointed which should decree the fate of two souls. …
The drizzle changed into half a gale, and scouring blasts shut out the landscape. There came a moment’s clearing, and lo! before him lay a bare space in the heath, where another road entered from the west to join the highway. At their meeting, set in a grove of hornbeams, stood an inn.
It was a small place, ancient, long and low, and the signboard could not be read in the dim weather. But beneath it, new-painted, was an open eye. He checked his horse, and turned to the door, for he knew with utter certainty that he had reached his destination.
He dropped from the saddle, and since there was no stable-lad in sight, he tied the reins to a ring in the wall. Then he pushed open the door and descended a step into the inn kitchen. A man was busy about the hearth, a grizzled elderly fellow in leathern small-clothes. In front of the fire a fine coat hung drying on two chairs, and a pair of sodden boots steamed beside the log basket.
The innkeeper looked up, and something in the quiet eyes and weatherworn face awoke in Alastair a recollection. He had not seen the face before, but he had seen its like.
“You have a guest?” he said.
The man did not answer, and Alastair knew that no word or deed of his would compel an answer, if the man were unwilling.
“You have the sign,” he said. “I, too, am of the Spoonbills. I seek Master Midwinter.”
The innkeeper straightened himself. “He shall be found,” he said. “What message do I carry?”
“Say that he to whom he promised help on Otmoor now claims it. And stay, there are two weary cattle outside. Have them fed and stabled.”
The man turned to go, but Alastair checked him.
“You have a guest?” he asked.
“He is now upstairs at food,” was the answer given readily. “He feeds in his shirt, for he is all mucked and moiled with the roads.”
“I have business with him, I and my friend. Let us be alone till Master Midwinter comes.”
The man stood aside to let Johnson stumble in. Then the door was shut, and to Alastair’s ear there was the turning of a key.
Johnson’s great figure seemed broken with weariness. He staggered across the uneven stone floor, and rolled into a grandfather’s chair which stood to the left of the fire. Then he caught sight of the coat drying in the glow and recognised it. Into his face, grey with fatigue, came a sudden panic. “It is his,” he cried. “He is here.” He lifted his head and seemed to listen like a stag at pause. Then he flung himself from the chair, and rushed on Alastair, who was staring abstractedly at the blaze. “You will not harm him,” he cried. “You will not break my lady’s heart. Sooner, sir, I will choke you with my own hands.”
His voice was the scream of an animal in pain, his skin was livid, his eyes were hot coals. Alastair, taken by surprise, was all but swung off his feet by the fury of the assault. One great arm was round his waist, one hand was clutching his throat. The two staggered back, upsetting the chair before the fire; the hand at the throat was shaken off, and in a second they were at wrestling-grips in the centre of the floor.
Both men were weary, and one was lately recovered of a sickness. This latter, too, was the lighter, and for a moment Alastair found himself helpless in a grip which crushed in his sides and stopped his breath. But Johnson’s passion was like the spouting of a volcano and soon died down. The fiery vigour went out of his clutch, but it remained a compelling thing, holding the young man a close prisoner.
The noise of the scuffle had alarmed the gentleman above. The stairs ran up in a steep flight direct from the kitchen, and as Alastair looked from below his antagonist’s elbow, he saw a white face peer beneath the low roof of the stairway, and a little further down three-quarters of the length of a sword blade. He was exerting the power of his younger arms against the dead strength of Johnson, but all the while his eyes were held by this new apparition. It was something clad only in shirt and breeches and rough borrowed stockings, but the face was unmistakable and the haggard eyes.
The apparition descended another step, and now Alastair saw the hand which grasped the sword. Fear was in the man’s face, and then a deeper terror, for he had recognised one of the combatants. There was perplexity there, too, for he was puzzled at the sight, and after
