“Well, you feel almost your own man again now, do you not?” his host queried at last.
Hugh essayed a smile in reply.
“Wait an hour or so and, if soft answers still have power with tavern women, we’ll have a good supper then,—I take it you’ll be ready for it. And now it seems time for ceremonious introductions. My name is Richard Strangwayes.”
“And my name is Hugh Gwyeth. My father is Colonel Alan Gwyeth of the king’s army.” Hugh spoke slowly as if he liked to linger over the words; it was the first time he had ever claimed his father.
“And you are bound for the king’s camp?” asked Strangwayes, sitting down on the opposite side of the fireplace.
Hugh explained very briefly that he had left home to join his father and had had a hard march, to which Strangwayes listened with sympathetic eyes, though when he took up the conversation again his tone was light. “We are headed for the same place, then, Master Gwyeth, for I am wearing out my horse to reach his Majesty’s army. I am going to join my uncle, Sir William Pleydall—”
Hugh felt he could have hugged the man, he seemed suddenly to have come so very near. “Why, I know Sir William,” he cried, “I was at school with his son. I’ve a letter from him here.” Pulling out Frank’s worn letter he passed it to Strangwayes, who stared at him an instant, then hastily scanned the sheet. When he handed it back Hugh noted a change in his manner; he had been kind before with the kindness of one stranger to another, but now he seemed to have taken to himself a permanent right to befriend Hugh. He came across the hearth and shook hands with the boy. “I’m right glad we chanced to meet, Hugh,” he said warmly. “We’ll journey the rest of the way together. Oh, yes, I can procure you a horse.”
Hugh ventured some weak objection, rather shamefacedly, for he knew he hoped Strangwayes would thrust it aside, and he felt only satisfaction when the young man did so. “Leave you to come on alone? Folly! I only lend you the horse; your father will settle the matter with me. I’ll charge him Jew’s interest, if ’twill content you. Do you think I mean to leave my cousin Frank’s comrade to fray out his clothes and his body along the road?”
Afterwards, when they were eating supper together and the maid who served them had quitted the room, Strangwayes suddenly looked up and asked quizzically, “You are well assured there is no Spanish blood in you?”
Hugh was quite sure; why had Master Strangwayes asked? What were Spaniards like, anyway? Strangwayes drawled on disjointedly for a quarter of an hour, while his eyes laughed in a provoking way: Spaniards were fierce fighters, and their women were pretty, and they liked gold, and they were proud as the devil, and they were very cruel, and they had a deal of dignity, and they grew oranges in their country. “Dream it out to-night, Hugh,” he advised, as they rose from the table; but Hugh disobeyed flagrantly, for the instant he was laid in a Christian bed once more he was sound asleep.