"You borrow from the poets, sir," said I surlily.
"Nay," he rejoined, "the poets from me, or from any man who has or has had a heart in him. What, Simon, you leave me?" For I had turned away.
"It's late, sir," said I, "for the making of rhapsodies."
"You've made yours," he smiled. "Hark, what's that?"
As he spoke there came the sound of horse's hoofs. A moment later the figures of two mounted men emerged from the darkness. By some impulse, I know not what, I ran behind the Vicar and sheltered myself in the porch at his back. Carford's arrival had set my mind astir again, and new events found ready welcome. The Vicar stepped out a pace into the road with his hand over his eyes, and peered at the strangers.
"What do you call this place, sir?" came in a loud voice from the nearer of the riders. I started at the voice; it had struck on my ears before, and no Englishman owned it.
"It is the village of Hatchstead, at your service," answered the Vicar.
"Is there an inn in it?"
"Ride for half a mile and you'll find a good one."