“Whom do you mean by ‘him’?”
But old Penelope tramped on unheeding, only she muttered to herself fiercely.
“Do you dread the future so greatly, Penelope?”
“No!” she answered sturdily. “I bean’t fruttened o’ now’t but fire ... an’ dogs!”
“Dogs?” he questioned.
“Aye, young man, they du set ’em on me sometimes, ’tis why I carry this gert staff ... killed a dog wi’ it once, I did—though I were badly bit! So they clapped me in the stocks, the dog was valleyble, y’ see, an’ chanced to belong to Lord Sayle, him as du live at the great ’ouse ’Friston way.”
Talking thus, they became aware of leisured hoof-strokes behind them, and, turning to stare, old Penelope pointed suddenly at the approaching rider with her long staff.
“Yonder ’e comes!” she whispered fiercely; “him as ought t’ be dead an’ gibbeted ... him as be afeart o’ me!”
Glancing round in turn, Sir John beheld a man bestriding a large, plump steed, a man who rode at a hand-pace, apparently lost in thought; thus Sir John had full time to observe him narrowly as he approached.
He seemed a prosperous and highly respectable man, for he went in broadcloth and fine linen; but his garments, devoid of all embellishings, were of sober hue, so that, looked at from behind, he might have been an itinerant preacher with a hint of the Quaker, but seen from in front, the narrow eyes, predatory nose, vulperine mouth and fleshy chin stamped him as being like nothing in life but himself.