“My lord!” was the terse reply, and by the very tone in which it was uttered Clare saw that the moment was unpropitious for his orders, and he gave them, with a faint blush and some hesitation.
“Turner, you will settle with the people here; pack up, and be ready to start at a moment’s notice.”
“Which way, my lord?”
When Turner was out of sorts his words were very few, and those few came forth with jerks, as if he plucked them up one by one from the depths of his bosom.
“I—I have not quite determined. Across to Malija, perhaps.”
“Humph!”
“This does not seem to please you, Turner.”
“What right has a servant to be pleased, I should like to know?” was the gruff rejoinder.
“When an old servant is a faithful friend too, we like to see him satisfied,” said Clare, in a voice that no woman could have resisted. But Turner felt his advantage. He saw that his master kept something back which he hesitated to speak out, and so resolved not to soften his embarrassment in the least.
“We shall require three saddle mules, the best that can be found in Granada,” said the master, at length.