John's honest heart misgave him. His friend's fresh young voice sounded hoarse and unnatural, there was a restless, feverish glitter in his eyes, and the slender, tapering hand which rested on the stick trembled visibly.
"You ought to be in bed, Captain," he muttered gruffly, "and well nursed too; you are ill..."
"I am sufficiently alive, friend, at any rate to serve Lady Patience to the end."
"I'll go tell her ladyship," said the smith, with a sigh.
"Say a man from the village would wish to speak with her.... Don't mention my name, John ... she'll not know me, I think.... 'Tis best that she should not.... And I look a miserable object enough, don't I?" he added with a feeble laugh.
"Her ladyship would command you to rest if she knew..."
"I don't wish her to know, friend," said Jack, smiling in spite of himself at the good fellow's vehemence, "her tender pity would try to wean me from my purpose, which is to serve her with the last breath left in me. And now, quick, John.... Don't worry about me, old friend.... I am only a little tired after that scramble on the Heath ... and the wound that limb of Satan dealt me is at times rather troublesome.... But I am very tough, you know.... All my plans are made, and I'll follow you at a little distance. Beg her ladyship to speak with me in the passage of the inn ... 'twould excite too much attention if I went up to her parlour.... No one'll know me, never fear."
John knew of old how useless it was to argue with the Captain once he had set his mind on a definite course of action. Without further protest, therefore, and yet with a heavy heart, he turned and quickly walked back through the village to the Packhorse, followed at some little distance by Bathurst.
In order to arouse as little suspicion as possible, it had been necessary for the young Earl of Stretton to mix from time to time with the servant and the barman of the inn. He was supposed to be an additional serving-man, come to help at the Packhorse in view of her ladyship's unexpected stay there. In this out-of-the-way village of Brassington no one knew him by sight, and he was in comparative safety here, until nightfall, when he meant to strike up country again for shelter.
He was standing in the shadow behind the bar, when John Stich entered the parlour, bearing the message from Beau Brocade. The room was dark and narrow, over-filled with heavy clouds of tobacco smoke and with the deafening clamour of loud discussions and exciting narratives carried on by two or three soldiers and some half-dozen villagers over profuse tankards of ale.