“Wilt follow me,” composedly demanded the stranger, “with hands free? or must I bind them?”
“Follow?” replied Adam, ruefully looking at the boy with eyes full of reproach—“ay, follow to any gallows thou wilt—and the nearest tree were the best! Come on!”
“I have no warrant,” returned the grave hunter.
“Tush! what warrant is needed for hanging a well-known outlaw—made so by the Prince’s tender mercies? The Prince will thank thee, man, for ridding the realm of the robber who fell on the treasurer bearing the bags from Leicester!”
And meanwhile, with uncouth cunning, Adam was striving to telegraph by winks and gestures to the boy who had so grievously disappointed him, that the moment of his own summary execution would be an excellent one for his companion’s escape.
But the eye, so steady yet so quick under its somewhat drooping eyelid, detected the simple stratagem.
“I trow the Prince might thank me more for bringing in this charge of thine.”
“Small thanks, I trow, for laying hands on a poor orphan—the son of a Poitevin man-at-arms—that I kept with me for love of his father, though he is fitter for a convent than the green wood!” added Adam, with the same sound of keen reproach and disappointment in his voice.
“That shall we learn at Guildford,” replied the stranger. “There are means of teaching a man to speak.”
“None that will serve with me,” stoutly responded Adam.