“Where can they be?” said one of the mounted men: “The rain won’t keep off long to-day.”
“Certainly not,” replied the other. “The sky is as grey as my old felt-hat, and, by the time we reach the forest, it will be pouring.”
“It’s misting already.”
“Such cold, damp weather is particularly disagreeable to me.”
“It was pleasant yesterday.”
“Button the flaps tighter over the pistol-holsters! The portmanteau behind the young master’s saddle isn’t exactly even. There! Did the cook fill the flask for you?”
“With brown Spanish wine. There it is.”
“Then let it pour. When a fellow is wet inside, he can bear a great deal of moisture without.”
“Lead the horses up to the door; I hear the gentlemen.”
The man was not mistaken; for before his companion had succeeded in stopping the larger roan, the voices of his master, Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma, and his son, Nicolas, were heard in the wide entry.