“Well, as for honest,” said the other, with the vacant grin that was expected of him, “I may be honest as my neighbours, if that be much to boast of; and it’s a terrible ill-found road, for sure. Best be jogging forrard, I tell ye.”
“It’s cursed luck, men,” said Goldstein, spurring his horse into the semblance of a trot; “but we’re hunting big game this time. A mile or two needn’t matter. There’s the Pretender at Windyhough, remember, and a nice bit of money to be earned.”
The shepherd watched them over the hilltop, then glanced at the piece of silver lying in his palm. There was so much he might do with this money—might buy himself a mug or two of ale at the tavern in the hollow, just by way of changing the crown-piece into smaller coin—and he was “feeling as if he needed warming up, like, after all this plaguy wind.”
He glanced at the coin again, with a wistfulness that was almost passionate. Then he spat on it, and threw it into the refuse from the mistal lying close behind.
“Nay, I’ll have honest ale, or none,” he growled, and crossed quietly to the house, and stood on the threshold, looking in.
He saw Shackleton’s wife bending over Sir Jasper, who lay in a swoon so helpless and complete that it was like a child’s sleep—a sleep tired with the day’s endeavours, yet tranquil and unfearful for the morrow’s safety.
“Oh, it is thee, is’t?” said Shackleton’s wife, facing round. “Well, he’s doing nicely—or was, till ye let in all this wind that’s fit to rouse a body from his grave.”
“Well-a-day, mistress,” said the shepherd, with a pleasant grin, “if that’s your humour, I’m for the mistal-yard again. It’s rare and quiet out there.”
“Nay, now,” she said, glancing up with sharp, imperious kindliness. “Shut t’ door, lad, and sit thee down by th’ peats, and keep a still tongue i’ thy head. I wouldn’t turn a dog out into all this storm that’s brewing up. And, besides, Sir Jasper’s mending. I’d doubts of him at first; but he’s sleeping like a babby now. We’ll keep watch together, till Shackleton comes home fro’ his ride to Windyhough. He’ll not be long, unless the maids there ’tice him to gossip and strong ale.”
“I might smoke, mistress—just, like, to pass the time?”