And still scared, still in obvious apology for his existence, he pulled at his forelock, re-adjusted his hat over his yellow curls, took his final leave, and presently began to wend his way slowly back towards the Heath.
But within the forge, at first bound of the young girl's voice, Stretton had started in uncontrollable excitement.
"Betty!" he whispered, eagerly clutching John Stich's arm.
"Aye! aye!" replied the cautious smith, "but I beg you, my lord, keep in the background until I find out if all is safe."
Mistress Betty's saucy brown eyes followed Jock Miggs's quaint, retreating figure.
"Well! you're a pretty bit of sheep's wool, ain't ye?" she shouted after him, with a laugh and a shrug of her plump shoulders.
Then she peered into the forge.
"Lud love you, Master Stich!" she said, "how goes it with you?"
In obedience to counsels of prudence, Stretton had retired into the remote corner of the forge. John Stich too was masking the entrance with his burly figure.
"All the better, Mistress Betty," he said, "for a sight of your pretty face."