“I will go myself, then.”
“Why not? You may keep all straight, and Will shall go with you. Call a groom, Will, and get your horse saddled, and my Yorkshire gray; he will make better play with this big fellow on his back, than the little pony astride of which Mr. Leigh came walking in (as I hear) this morning. As for Frank, the ladies will see to him well enough, and glad enough, too, to have so fine a bird in their cage for a week or two.”
“And my mother?”
“We'll send to her to-morrow by daybreak. Come, a stirrup cup to start with, hot and hot. Now, boots, cloaks, swords, a deep pull and a warm one, and away!”
And the jolly old man bustled them out of the house and into their saddles, under the broad bright winter's moon.
“You must make your pace, lads, or the moon will be down before you are over the moors.” And so away they went.
Neither of them spoke for many a mile. Amyas, because his mind was fixed firmly on the one object of saving the honor of his house; and Will, because he was hesitating between Ireland and the wars, and Rose Salterne and love-making. At last he spoke suddenly.
“I'll go, Amyas.”
“Whither?”
“To Ireland with you, old man. I have dragged my anchor at last.”