“Forget what, master?”
“Oh! the prayings and the burnings and Vrouw Jansen, and Adrian’s sea-lawyer sort of talk.”
“Ah, yes, that’s the worst of them all for us,” and the big man leapt forward and whispered. “Keep an eye on him, Master Foy.”
“What do you mean?” asked Foy sharply and flushing.
“What I say.”
“You forget; you are talking of my brother, my own mother’s son. I will hear no harm of Adrian; his ways are different to ours, but he is good-hearted at bottom. Do you understand me, Martin?”
“But not your father’s son, master. It’s the sire sets the strain; I have bred horses, and I know.”
Foy looked at him and hesitated.
“No,” said Martin, answering the question in his eyes. “I have nothing against him, but he always sees the other side, and that’s bad. Also he is Spanish——”
“And you don’t like Spaniards,” broke in Foy. “Martin, you are a pig-headed, prejudiced, unjust jackass.”