With that he raised his hand, and the door crashed in. I caught one glimpse of Portlock’s face—it was a mere white slab of terror—and turned away.
“Now,” said the earl in my ear; but I shuddered from him.
“I won’t—don’t ask me—it is not in the price!”
He uttered an impatient oath, bade one of his men hastily to my side, and himself, with the other three, strode into the cottage.
I don’t know how long passed; it may have been minutes, and seemed an hour. All the time a low snuffling reached me from the interior. The bitter wind had loosened my hair, and I caught its strands to my ears, to my eyes, and rocked in my saddle, trying to shut out everything. Presently a man came forth, to join the other by my side.
“Garamighty, Job!” muttered he; “his honour be cap’en of the gang, and no mistake. You should see his larder.”
“Ah! what’s in it?” asked the first.
“Ten fat bucks, as I’m a saint,” answered the other. “We know now where the pick o’ the herd’s gone to, eh?”
I sat up, listening.
“What larder?” I asked faintly; for, indeed, I knew of none.