"Well, an' why not?" he demanded. "Can't a cove grieve now an' then if he's a mind to?"
"But you're a highwayman!"
"Which seein' you say so, I'll not deny," said he. "So I'll trouble you for your purse an' also your ticker—an' sharp's the word!" And speaking, he whipped a pistol beneath my chin, whereupon I delivered up the articles named as quickly as my consternation would allow. "And now," said he, pocketing my erstwhile property and seizing my arm again, "come on, friend, an' let this be a warnin' never to disturb a 'ighwayman wot grieves."
"Why do you grieve?"
"For my Chloe!"
"Your wife?"
"Wife—no! Never 'ad a wife—never shall. There's no woman breathin' could ekal my Chloe for love an' faithfulness—used to nibble my 'air, she did, poor lass!"
"Nibble your hair?" I repeated. "Pray who was she?"
"My mare, for sure—my pretty mare as 'adn't 'er ekal for speed nor wind—my mare as they Bow Street dogs shot an' left to bleed 'er life out in the mud an' be damned to 'em."
"Then the tale of your wife and babies weeping for you was untrue?"