“The boy, Angus, and I are leaving early to-morrow for Longtown. If those rascals follow us up and you get a chance to delay them, do so. A loose shoe proved very useful before.”
William Forster, the innkeeper, brought supper, and Wilfred, who was now thoroughly awake, boylike, was not averse to sharing their meal.
“There’s a room prepared for you upstairs,” said Forster. “I suppose your page will be all right on the other settle?”
“Yes, that will do,” answered Ian. “You do not mind, little one,” he whispered softly after the man had gone. “I think it is best.”
“Of course not,” she answered.
After the meal they sat by the fire for a few minutes, and Ian looked across at the two boys, as they seemed. Wilfred was immensely better in health and had entirely lost the half starved look. “He’s certainly a beautiful lad,” Ian mused. “They make as fine a pair of boys as Aline and Audry were girls. I must paint those two, just like that, if ever we get safely through. I wish I could sketch them now.”
When Ian had retired, Wilfred, who was fascinated by his companion, tried to draw her into conversation; but she was very reticent and pleaded that she wanted to go to sleep, which was indeed true.
“You have a fine master now,” said Wilfred, “even though he is only a carpenter. He doesn’t look like a man to have a page in those rough home-spuns of his. But you are lucky, going round and serving him. I wish I had the chance. I would die for that man.”
“So would I,” said Aline quietly.