We followed a roundabout course, now across broad meadows, now treading green cart-tracks, now climbing some grassy upland, anon plunging into the shadow of lonely wood or coppice until the moon was down, until was a glimmer of dawn with low-lying mists brimming every grassy hollow and creeping phantom-like in leafy boskages; until in the east was a glory, warming the grey mist to pink and amber and gold, and the sun, uprising, darted his level beams athwart our way and it was day.
And now from coppice and hedgerow, near and far, was stir and flutter, a whistling and a piping that rose ever louder and swelled to a trilling ecstasy of gladness.
"Hark to 'em—O pal, hark to 'em!" quoth Godby, lifting head to watch a lark that soared aloft. "Here's music, Martin, here's cure for the megrims, hope for the downcast and promise o' joys to come. O hark to 'em!"
All the day Penfeather led us on by lonely ways, never seeming to weary and never at a loss, silent for the most part as one in profound thought, and I speaking little as is my wont, but Godby talked and sang and laughed for the three of us.
It was as we sat outside a little ale-house snugged 'mid trees, eating of bread and cheese, that Penfeather turned suddenly and gripped my arm:
"Martin," says he, "'twill be plaguy business carrying women aboard ship—along o' these lambs o' mine—there's scarce a rogue but cheats the gallows with his every breath!"
"Why then, tell her so, Adam, plain and to the point."
"'Twould be vain breath, Martin, I know her too well—and she is a Brandon!"
"A curse on the name!" says I, whereupon Godby choked into his ale, stared in surprise and would fain have questioned me, but meeting my eye, spake no word.
"D'ye know aught of navigation, Martin?" says Adam suddenly.