He was drawing on his cloak, still with his back toward Strangwayes, who stood by the window, when his friend struck in gayly: “In good time, here are the horses. Come along, now.” Thus Hugh was hurried out at the door, with time only for a single backward glance at the little crowded chamber, and barely an instant in which to ask himself, would he ever look upon that room again?
At the foot of the first flight of stairs they met Turner, recognizable by his slim figure, though the corridor was too dark for them to distinguish his face. “Going out to the field, eh, Gwyeth?” he asked, thrusting out his hand. “Well, success to you, lad, good success.” He shook hands a second time with a strong pressure that lingered on Hugh’s fingers till after they were mounted and off.
Under foot the mud and slush were heavy, but the horses kept up a tolerable pace, which Hugh, unknown to himself, was setting for them. A feverish desire to be moving quickly was upon him, and with it a dread of being silent. He laughed and chatted indifferently of whatever caught his eye upon the western road till he soon had Strangwayes talking back glibly. “We’ll dine at an alehouse called the ‘Sceptre,’” Dick rattled on. “I know it well of old. I used to have a score as long as my arm chalked on the door. There’s a very pretty bowling green behind the house. Which explains my long score. When the spring comes I must have you out thither and teach you to bowl. ’Tis good for the muscles of the arm, let alone the exhilaration of the spirits.”
It was mid-morning when they drew rein before the much belauded alehouse, a low gray building, in a field somewhat apart from the surrounding cottages, with tall poplars in a row on either side that made it seem the more remote. The short-breathed host and his staid, gray-headed drawer had had acquaintance with Strangwayes as late as that winter, to judge by the warmth of their greeting. They had the horses to the stable at once, and the gentlemen to the big front chamber of the upper story, where a good fire was started, a cloth laid, and all made comfortable. “We’ll not dine till one o’clock,” Strangwayes ordered. “If you hear scuffling before then be not dismayed; we may try some sword practice. You understand, eh, Martin?”
The sober drawer showed sparks of interest. “Be you to fight, Master Strangwayes?” he asked.
“This gentleman is, this afternoon. Now keep a quiet tongue, Martin, as you always do.” He slipped a piece of money into the drawer’s hand, and the man departed slowly, with his gaze on Hugh.
“Now make yourself at ease,” Strangwayes bade. “Or will you try a little rapier practice to limber your muscles?”
Hugh was ready enough, so Strangwayes procured from the host a pair of blunted rapiers with which they fell to fencing. Hugh watched Dick’s sword-hand and did his best, but again and again the point slipped past his blade; there seemed no suppleness in his wrist nor spring in his body, and when he tried desperately to retort faster he laid himself open to his adversary. In the end, as he attempted a vigorous thrust in quarte, his foot slipped so he only saved himself by catching at the table. As he recovered himself he looked at Dick, and saw his face was of an appalling soberness. “You’ve a steady enough hand, Hugh,” he began hastily. “Only you must quicken your thrusts somewhat. No, don’t try any more; you’ll only spend yourself needlessly.”
Hugh handed back his weapon, and made a great work of putting on his coat again. But presently it would out. “My father is considerable of a swordsman, is he not?” he began.
“He has that reputation,” Strangwayes answered dryly.