“Well, he up and ’fied ’em all, and said his house was his cassil, which he would shelter any one he pleased, and specially a noble and injured lady.”
“High heart! I thank him!” exclaimed Mr. Berners.
“Which ’fiance you see, sir, confarmed everybody in the faith that you was bofe hid in his house, so artfully as even the sarch-warranters as went there couldn’t find you. And so, sir, nobody, from first to last, has once said ‘Haunted Chapel.’”
“Joe, how far are we from the Haunted Chapel?”
“Not more ’n a mile, sir, from the little path that leads up to it.”
“Well, I think we had better go there again and rest to-day, and resume our journey to-night. There can be no safer place.”
“No whar in all the world, sir.”
“Then we will go at once. Throw the saddles into the cart, at your mistress’ feet, so as not to crowd her. I will then drive the cart, and you may lead the two riding horses after us,” said Mr. Berners, going at once to the side of the rude vehicle where Sybil lay in so deep a sleep that she did not wake, even when he mounted the seat and started the springless cart jolting along the rough road.
Joe led the saddle horses close behind, and so they went on.
“Joe,” said Mr. Berners, “I hope that all things go on well at home.”