Patience, too, catching at this happy interruption like a drowning man does at a straw, turned to look at the approaching stranger.
Her eyes were the first to meet his as he reached the entrance of the forge, and with an elaborate, courtly gesture he raised his three-cornered hat and made her a respectful bow.
Then he burst out laughing.
"Ho! ho! ho! but here's a pretty to-do. Why, John Stich, my friend, you look a bit out of temper."
He stood there framed in the doorway, with the golden light of the afternoon sun throwing into bold silhouette his easy, graceful stature, and the pleasant picture of him, with one arm round the beautiful horse's neck and his slender fingers gently fondling its soft, quivering nose.
John Stich, at first sound of the stranger's voice, had relaxed from his defiant attitude, and a ray of hope had chased away the threatening look in his eyes.
"So would you be, Captain," he said gruffly, "with these red coats inside your house, and all their talk of rebels."
"Captain?" murmured the Sergeant.
"Aye, Captain Bathurst, my man, of His Majesty's White Dragoons," said the stranger, carelessly, as without more ado he led his horse within the forge and tethered it close to the entrance. Then he came forward and slapped the Sergeant vigorously on the back.
"And I'll go bail, Sergeant, that John Stich is no rebel. He's far too big a fool!" he added in an audible whisper, and with a merry twinkle in his grey eyes.