When we came up to the door of the house and knocked loudly thereon we received no answer for some time, and were thus obliged to come to the conclusion that the place was deserted, which idea was strengthened when we saw that the farmyard was empty, and that there was no fodder in any of the barns or sheds. The outbuildings, indeed, were falling to pieces, the damp and the dry rot having conspired to finish them off, both inside and out. From what we could see of the house through the dirty windows, it was in a similar state, and looked as if it had no tenants other than rats, mice, and vermin.
We were turning away from this uninviting place, when we heard the sound of a bolt being withdrawn from its staple, followed by the rattling of a chain, and presently the door was opened to us by a tall old man who looked more like a wild animal than a human being, so fiercely did his eyes glare through the knotted and tangled mass of hair which grew all over his face. He was clothed in little better than rags, and his arms and feet were bare, while his shoulders—which he shrugged as if he were cold, though it was a fine warm summer morning—were covered with a sheepskin rudely dressed, and left with the feet and tail still hanging to it.
“God save you, master!” said Philip, drawing nearer to the door. “This was a house of call, an I mistake not, in former days.”
“Yes, yes,” said the old man, whose fierce eyes were examining our persons and our horses as if he had never seen aught like us before. “Yes, yes; do your horses want a feed? I am very poor, but there is a little corn in the stables.”
“Then they shall have it,” said Philip. “Come, Will, let us dismount. The cattle will be all the better for an hour’s rest. Your homestead does not seem to be in very good condition, master,” he continued as the old man went before into the stable. “What hath happened here of late?”
“It was robbed, robbed,” piped the old man in his cracked voice. “Those Roundhead knaves sacked it of all I had—grain and straw. Pray God ye be not of their following!”
“Nay, we are for the King,” said Philip, “and will pay handsomely for whatever we eat. Have you no food or drink for us, master, as well as for our horses?”
“There is a little ale, just a little,” said the old man, “and some cheese and bread, if that will content you, gentlemen. Once upon a time travellers fared well with me, but, alas! I have naught left for myself nowadays, save yonder two or three sheep which I am too infirm to catch.”
While we had been talking he had led the way to a stable which was somewhat less dilapidated than the rest of the buildings, and was fairly well fitted with two stalls, in which we placed our horses. This done, he produced a feed of corn for each from a bin that stood in the corner, afterwards going before us back to the house.
“Come in, noble gentlemen, come in,” said he as we reached the threshold. “ ’Tis a poor place, but if you will pass through the kitchen you will find a parlour more suited to your quality. ’Tis indeed the only apartment in the house where I can entertain you, for all else hath been cleared off.”
We went through the desolate-looking kitchen into a smaller apartment, wherein the sole furniture consisted of a deal table and two or three rough chairs.
“Marry!” quoth Philip. “You seem to have fallen on sore times, friend, of late years.”
“Yes, yes,” said the old man. “Yes, sore indeed—but you need refreshment, gentlemen. I will bring you what I have. It is not often that travellers pass this way nowadays.”
He presently returned and set before us a platter of bread and cheese and a great jug of ale, the sight of which was not unwelcome to us, sharp set as we were by our long ride through the night.
“You have a deep cellar, master,” said Philip, tossing off his pot at a draught. “Your ale is cold as an icicle.”
“Ay,” said the old man, “deep enough, but poorly furnished, sir, since all these troubles came upon me.”
“Ay,” said Philip, “these be troublous times, ’tis true. Tell us, master, do you know where the estate of one Captain Trevor, an officer in his Majesty’s forces, lieth? It is somewhat near the Peak, so I have heard, and we are now in that neighbourhood, if I mistake not.”
“Yes,” answered the old man, “you are now at the foot of the Peak, and Squire Trevor’s estate lieth before you at a distance of seven miles. Follow this bridle-path along the valley until you come to the road again, and then ride straight on till you reach the park gates.”
“Have you seen aught of Captain Trevor lately?” inquired Philip. “Is he much seen in these parts?”
“Nay,” said the old man, “not since the war began, gentlemen. But I see you have drunk all the ale–shall I fetch you another stoupful?”
“Why,” said Philip, “I am certainly thirsty this morning, so fill up again, master, and then you might give our horses a drink of water. I dare say the poor brutes are as dry as their riders.”
We continued eating and drinking while the old man went out to the stables. I ate little, being in no frame of mind for food, but I had grown strangely thirsty since leaving my horse, and took deep draughts of the ale, which was cool and refreshing.
“Beshrew me, Will,” said Philip Lisle suddenly, “I have turned vastly sleepy since we halted. My eyes keep winking against my
