"In this house it was, indeed, Master Denis," replied the steward, "while you were a poor babe not yet two year old. But there be some things best forgotten," he added quickly, and began to walk towards where the men were felling an alder tree by the combe-brook.
"Nay, Peter Sprot," I cried out, detaining him, "tell me all now, for things cannot be forgotten, save they have first been spoken of."
He laughed a little at this boyish argument, but would not consent at that time. Indeed, it was near a year afterwards, and when I had gained some authority about the estate, that he at length did as I demanded.
It was a sweet spring morning (I remember) with a heaven full of big white clouds come up from the westward over Dunkery on a high wind that bent the saplings and set the branches in the great woods stirring. We had gone up the moor, behind Mr. Jordan's house, with the shepherd, to recover a strayed sheep, which, about an hour before noon, the shepherd chanced to espy a long way off, dead, and a mob of ravens over her, buffeted about by the gale. The shepherd immediately ran to the place, where he beat off the ravens and afterwards took up the carcase on his shoulders and went down the combe, leaving us twain together.
"It is not often that he loses any beast," said the steward. "'Tis a careful man among the flocks, though among the wenches, not so."
I know not why, but this character of the shepherd put me again in mind of my uncle Botolph, upon whom I had not thought for a great while.
"Tell me, Peter Sprot," I said, "how it was my father and my uncle came to fighting."
"Nay, they came not so far as to fight," cried the steward, with a start.
"But they drew upon each other," said I.
He sat silent for a little, tugging at his rough hair, as was his wont when he meditated deeply.