“Two morts,” [{86}] said the girl, kindling up—“where are they? Speak for one, and no more. I am no mort of yours, whatever some one else may be. I tell you one thing, Black John, or Anselo, for t’other an’t your name, the same thing I told the young man here, be civil, or you will rue it.”
The fellow looked at the girl furiously, but his glance soon quailed before hers; he withdrew his eyes, and cast them on my little horse, which was feeding amongst the trees. “What’s this?” said he, rushing forward and seizing the animal. “Why, as I am alive, this is the horse of that mumping villain Slingsby.”
“It’s his no longer; I bought it and paid for it.”
“It’s mine now,” said the fellow; “I swore I would seize it the next time I found it on my beat—ay, and beat the master too.”
“I am not Slingsby.”
“All’s one for that.”
“You don’t say you will beat me?”
“Afraid was the word.”
“I’m sick and feeble.”
“Hold up your fists.”