“What is he to you?” John asked.
“Nothing,” she retorted. “Muck,” and took another wolfish bite at the turnip; she appeared ravenous.
John turned his back on her. He had no intention of proceeding with the matter, since to do so meant carrying a stunned footpad, twelve stone at least, a mile into Market Jew and later standing the publicity of the Assizes. He was not a little elated at the success of his “flying mare” and in a mood to be generous. After all he had lost nothing but a little skin; he would let the matter drop. He picked the man up and slung him off the road into the gorse of the pack track. Now for his horse. He walked past the munching girl in silence, halted, felt in his pocket, found a florin and jerked it to her.
“Here,” he said, “get yourself an honest meal.”
The florin fell in the ditch, the girl dropped off the bank onto it as he had seen a hawk drop on a field vole.
“Good God!” he muttered. “She must be starved,” and walked on.
He would knock up the inn in Market Jew and spend the remainder of the night there, he decided. He would look for his horse in the morning—but he expected it would trot home.
A hundred yards short of the St. Hilary turning he came upon the mare; she was standing quietly, a forefoot planted on a broken rein, holding herself nose to the ground. He freed her, knotted the rein and mounting clattered down the single street and out on the beach road on the other side. Since he had his horse he would push straight through after all; if he stopped he would have to concoct some story to account for his battered state, which would be difficult. He went at a walk, pondering over the events of the night. On his left hand the black mass of St. Michael’s Mount loomed out of the moon-silvered bay like some basking sea monster; before him lay Penzance with the spire of St. Mary’s rising above the masts of the coasters, spearing at the stars.
At Ponsandane River the mare picked up a stone. John jumped off, hooked it out and was preparing to remount when he noticed that she had got her head round and was staring back down the road, ears pricked. There was some one behind them. He waited a full minute, but could neither see nor hear anything, so went on again, through Penzance, over Newlyn Green and up the hill. The wind had died away. It was the still hour that outrides dawn; the east was already paling. In the farms about Paul, John could hear the cocks bugling to each other; hidden birds in the blackthorns gave sleepy twitters; a colt whinnied “good morning” from a near-by field and cantered along the hedge, shaking the dew from its mane. Everything was very quiet, very peaceful, yet John could not rid himself of the idea that he was being followed. He pulled up again and listened, but, hearing nothing, rode on, calling himself a fool.
He dropped down into Trevelloe Bottoms, gave the mare a drink in Lamorna stream and climbed Boleigh. A wall-eyed sheep dog came out of a cottage near the Pipers and flew, yelping, at the horse’s heels. He cursed it roundly and it retired whence it came, tail between its legs. As he turned the bend in the road he heard the cur break into a fresh frenzy of barking.