“The troopers?”
“Aye, Jack: an’ work I had this day wi’ those same bloody warriors: but take a sup at the keg, and bite this manchet of oat cake while I tell thee.”
And so, having fed me, and set my bed straight, she sat on the floor beside me (for the better hearing), and in her uncouth tongue, told how I had been saved. I cannot write her language; but the tale, in sum, was this:—
When I dropp’d forward into her arms, Joan for a moment was taken aback, thinking me dead. But (to quote her) “‘no good,’ said I, ‘in cuddlin’ a lad ’pon the hillside, for folks to see, tho’ he have a-got curls like a wench: an’ dead or ‘live, no use to wait for others to make sure.’”
So she lifted and carried me to a spot hard by, that she called the “Jew’s Kitchen;” and where that was, even with such bearings as I had, she defied me to discover. There was no time to tend me, whilst Molly stood near to show my whereabouts: so she let me lie, and went to lead the sorrel down to stable.
Her hand was on the bridle when she heard a Whoop! up the road; and there were half a dozen riders on the crest, and tearing down hill toward her. Joan had nothing left but to feign coolness, and went on leading the mare down the slope.
In a while, up comes the foremost trooper, draws rein, and pants out “Where’s he to?”
“Who?” asks Joan, making out to be surprised.
“Why, the lad whose mare thou’rt leadin’?”
“Mile an’ half away by now.”