“Sir,” replied Walter, “it is not to the tale of every stranger that a man gives belief.”
“Belief!—ah, well, well, ‘tis no matter,” said the horseman, sullenly. “There was a time, man, when I would have forced what I now solicit; but my heart’s gone. Ride on, Sir—ride on,—and the curse of—”
“If,” interrupted Walter, irresolutely—“if I could believe your statement:—but no. Mark me, Sir: I have reasons—fearful reasons, for imagining you mean this but as a snare!”
“Ha!” said the horseman, deliberately, “have we met before?”
“I believe so.”
“And you have had cause to complain of me? It may be—it may be: but were the grave before me, and if one lie would smite me into it, I solemnly swear that I now utter but the naked truth.”
“It would be folly to trust him, Bunting?” said Walter, turning round to his attendant.
“Folly!—sheer madness—bother!”
“If you are the man I take you for,” said Walter, “you once lifted your voice against the murder, though you assisted in the robbery of a traveller:—that traveller was myself. I will remember the mercy—I will forget the outrage: and I will not believe that you have devised this tale as a snare. Take my horse, Sir; I will trust you.”
Houseman, for it was he, flung himself instantly from his saddle. “I don’t ask God to bless you: a blessing in my mouth would be worse than a curse. But you will not repent this: you will not repent it!”