But when Strangwayes came out again some time later the laughter had gone from his face, and in its stead was a troubled, angry look that made Hugh forget his petty vexation and run down from the porch to meet him. “What has happened, Dick?” he begged.
“Why, nothing,” replied Strangwayes, and took hold of his arm, so they paced up and down the courtyard together, “and yet everything is amiss. The white horse has gone lame.”
“Is that all?”
“Enough. Unless you fancy walking ten miles through the mud and rain to the next village. I do not.”
“You can ride my horse. That is, he’s yours, of course.”
“Or you might carry me,” Strangwayes answered soberly. “No, Hugh, neither you nor I will walk that ten miles nor the half of it, dragging a hobbled horse behind us.”
“Well, at worst,” Hugh tried to speak cheerfully, “we shall but lose a few hours.”
“Ay, is that all? Tell me this, Hugh: why did a sound horse go lame in the mere course of dinner?”
“Then it’s possible ’twas done with fore-thought?” Hugh cried. “Perchance they mean—”
“Hush, hush, you fire-eater!” Strangwayes interrupted hastily. “If ’twas the inn people lamed the horse they did it only to stay us here, that they might profit by our tarrying. Or to hinder us in our journey, for this knave Emry has no love unto me.”