The happy travelers found shelter for that night in the kind herdsman's cottage where Sir Richard had tarried whilst journeying with Isabel. The simple folk displayed a quite lively surprise upon observing that the maid with whom the young knight was now traveling was not the same. Sir Richard thought that mayhap they imagined that he was engaged upon the business of depopulating Scotland of her famous beauties. "There is just cause for such a supposition, i' truth," he added to himself.
"I ken weel," the good man said, a glint of Scot's humor in his eyes, "that 'e braw English laddies be unco daft. The muckle Auld Hornie be in 'e all! But 'e hae yin bonnie lassie with 'e, now, sir knight ... yin muckle cantie jo!" and with that he winked at Sir Richard in a knowing fashion.
His goodwife, a white-capped dame, busied herself in setting before them a "gigot" and a "bit kebbuck"; which translated and assimilated into English leg-o'-mutton and cheese. Bearing well in mind the company in which it was eaten, it would be a profanation to tell how thoroughly the young knight enjoyed that meal withal. But it must be confessed as well that the mulled ale was like a goblet of nectar to his palate.
They passed a long and happy evening, Rocelia and Sir Richard, sitting by the fire's side beneath the smoke-browned beams of the low-ceilinged kitchen. Intently she listened, with her soft eyes bent lovingly upon the young knight, the while he recounted the adventures through which he had passed. She laughed right heartily when he came to that part of his tale where he had rescued her cousin Isabel out of the Red Tavern; and told him how bitterly her uncle Zenas had misliked her cousin, though all the while standing in somewhat of fear of her sharp tongue. Rocelia had known of but three, she said, who had ever held the slightest place within Zenas' morbid affections. Of the three, she named first the hound, to whose life Sir Richard had put a quietus on that first night; then her father; and, last, herself. "Revenge and jealousy, I make no doubt, hath armed the crookback's hand against thee, dear," she said.
"Richard ... dear Dick," she whispered afterward, when it came to parting for the night, "since learning of all these base intrigues, these petty jealousies, these crafty plottings and counter-plottings, I am no whit sorry to see you leaving them all behind you. I would rather that my king should sit ever upon a three-legged stool than upon a velvet-tufted and silken-canopied throne won after these wicked fashions."
They were out betimes the next morning, albeit the day was none of the pleasantest; a thick fog having set in from the sea during the night. As they moved slowly over the downs Sir Richard remarked that the members of their little party seemed like gray and misty shadows moving against a pearly cloud.
Before the middle of the day they drew near the little hut where de Claverlok and Isabel would doubtless be waiting. It was fair blotted out in the mist, but Sir Richard could make out a vague and shadowy form sitting desolate upon a huge boulder by the roadside. Upon a nearer approach he recognized it to be the foot-boy Thomas. When he caught sight of the approaching company of three he came sliding down off the boulder, running to the young knight's side and embracing his greaved leg for very joy.
"Oh, sire!" he hoarsely whispered, "the very devil's to pay back there," jerking his thumb above his shoulder.
"And now, prithee, what is 't?" asked Sir Richard.
"Came yester morn, sir," he answered, "a great, tall, bearded knight,—with the two points of his mustachios turned skyward ... so,—vowing that he'd bear Mistress de Claverlok away with him or kill everyone in the place. My worshipful master was for having his sword at him upon the instant (and he, sire, but just able to be out of his bed). But Mistress de Claverlok bars the door and holds the murderous knight without. Even I may not be admitted. Hark ye!... I can hear him cursing even now. Thus does he carry on all the day. Why, sire, he stuck the good doctor from Bannockburn right in the middle ... here, sire ... like he were cutting him a cheese. By Saint Peter! but 'tis a parlous business!"