Now, I had never seen the man in my life before, and did not know him from Adam, and I was therefore something more than surprised when he started away from me as if I had been a ghost. He held up one hand to shield himself, as though I had motioned to strike him, and there came over his face such a look of terrible fear as I never saw on any other human countenance.
“God save me!” said he. “ ’Tis himself!”
“What is the matter, friend?” I cried. “It would appear that my presence causes you some uneasiness. Do I look so very dreadful, then?”
Now, a great look of relief came over the man’s face when I spoke, and he drew himself up from his frightened posture and stood staring at me curiously. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of more than middle age, clad in clothes much stained with travelling, and wearing a large horseman’s cloak over his shoulders. His hair was gray, and his face much scarred and seamed, as if he had seen all sorts of weather and taken not a few blows.
“Sir, sir,” said he, stammering some words forth in his confusion, “I beg your pardon, sir—you looked—in fact, your honour gave me a great fright. You look so much like—someone I once knew.”
He still stood and stared at me, examining my height and breadth, and glancing at my face as if he could not believe that I was other than a spirit. John Sanderson meanwhile had awoke and was standing behind me, looking at the stranger.
“Yes,” said the man once more, “so much like someone I once knew.”
“Marry,” said John Sanderson, “then you knew his father, friend, for this is the very spit of him as he was. But ’tis cold work standing here, so come in, master, if you want good accommodation for man or beast.”
The man tied his horse to a ring outside the porch, and followed us inside.
“I could eat some food,” he said, “for I have ridden a long way since night, and the horse would do with a feed of corn.”
“You shall have both,” said John. “Plague on it! who would ha’ thought the day was come already? Three o’clock, as I am a living sinner. But then, ’tis light nearly all night now.”
The stranger had taken his seat opposite me on the settle, and I noticed that he kept glancing at me in the same strangely curious fashion. I rose and went towards the outer kitchen, where Captain was still resting. The man’s eyes followed me as I moved. I looked round and caught them fixed upon me.
“You seem interested in me, friend,” I said, not exactly liking to be stared at in this manner.
“I ask your pardon,” he answered. “I have not been in these parts for many years, and I knew a man then—perhaps it was your father, as the landlord said just now I could have sworn you were he.”
“And what made you afraid, then?”
“Because the man I took you for is dead,” he said. “Come, master, you would have been afraid yourself if you had suddenly met a man whom you fancied dead and buried these twelve years.”
“I suppose I should,” I answered, and went into the outer kitchen and led Captain forth. He seemed to have recovered by that time, and as I was anxious to be off, I laid down my reckoning for John Sanderson on the horse-block outside, and, mounting my horse, rode away out of the yard. Looking round at the gate, I saw the stranger staring at me from the window, one shutter of which he had put back to get another glimpse of me ere I departed. But as his queer fancies were naught to me, I rode away, and ere long drew rein at the Barbican in Pontefract, where I gave Sir Thomas Fairfax’s letter into safe keeping for Sir Richard Lowther, and talked a while with the guard on what things I had seen at York and Marston. They would fain have kept me there for some time, so that I might tell them more news of the battle, but I was anxious to be home, and presently set out again for Dale’s Field, where I arrived just as old Jacob, always first to rise, was coming out on the doorstep to see how the morning air smelt.
XXIX
Of the Departure of Captain Trevor
Now, although I had been away from home but a few days, I had in that short space of time passed through such strange and remarkable adventures that it seemed to me as though ages had elapsed since I had last seen the familiar faces that smiled in welcome at my return. I almost expected to hear that something wonderful had taken place during my absence, and felt, I think, surprised when Jacob Trusty told me that all was going on as usual, and that nothing worthy of notice had transpired while I had been away.
“Though indeed,” said he, as he walked by my horse’s side toward the stables, “since you left us, Master William, that rapscallion carpenter at Darrington hath again beaten his wife and made a beast of himself with strong drink, which, if the saying be true, is no news, being what he hath done many a time afore. However, he now lieth in the parish stocks, and hath been well pelted with mud and rotten eggs, so that he
