“Sell me a horse,” I blurted out: “Twenty guineas will I give for one within five minutes, and more if he be good! I ride on the King’s errand.”
“Then get thee back to thy master, an’ say, no horse shall he have o’ me—nor any man that uses horseflesh so.” She pointed to Molly’s knees, that were bow’d and shaking, and the bloody froth dripping from her mouth.
“Girl, for God’s sake sell me a horse! They are after me, and I am hurt.” I pointed up the road. “Better than I are concerned in this.”
“God nor King know I, young man. But what’s on thy saddle cloth, there?”
’Twas the smear where my blood had soak’d: and looking and seeing the purple mess cak’d with mud and foam on the sorrel’s flank, I felt suddenly very sick. The girl made a step to me.
“Sell thee a horse? Hire thee a bedman, more like. Nay, then, lad—”
But I saw her no longer: only called “oh-oh!” twice, like a little child, and slipping my hold of the saddle, dropp’d forward on her breast.
* * * * * * *
Waking, I found myself in darkness—not like that of night, but of a room where the lights have gone out: and felt that I was dying. But this hardly seem’d a thing to be minded. There was a smell of peat and bracken about. Presently I heard the tramp of feet somewhere overhead, and a dull sound of voices that appear’d to be cursing.
The footsteps went to and fro, the voices muttering most of the time. After a bit I caught a word—“Witchcraft”: and then a voice speaking quite close—“There’s blood ’pon her hands, an’ there’s blood yonder by the plough.” Said another voice, higher and squeaky, “there’s scent behind a fox, but you don’t dig it up an’ take it home.” The tramp passed on, and the voices died away.