He handed her the rope and took a coin from her. Then he brought a little leathern purse from his breeches pocket and put the money into it.
"You're sure your faither didn't say twelve?"
"No."
"He's a hard man. Good-night to you."
"'Tis the right price for a dead horse. Good-night."
The ancient had no farewell word for his beast, and the companions of twelve years parted for ever. The girl took her way with the old horse; the man turned in his tracks moodily, chattering to himself.
"Warrener did ought to have give twelve," he said again and again as he went homewards. By furze banks and waste places and the confines of woods he passed, and then he stopped where a star twinkled above the gloomy summits of spruce firs. Beneath them there peered out a thatched cottage, but no light shone from its face. The patriarch entered with his frosty news, and almost instantly a female voice, shrill and full of trouble, struck upon the night.
"It did ought to have been twelve!"
Owls cried to each other across the forest and seemed to echo the lamentation.
CHAPTER II