An ordinary, three-cornered hat, devoid of all ornament or garnishings, but of excellent material and workmanship: such a hat as could have covered the head of a prosperous, highly reputable person only.
“By heavens, Bob!” exclaimed Sir John, grim-lipped. “’Tis a murderer’s hat and might be a magistrate’s! Note its sober cock, its generous proportions, its eminent respectability! Have ye ever seen it, ere now, Bob?”
“Aye, I have, sir!” answered the Corporal, scowling at the thing he held.
“’Tis a hat in a thousand, Bob, and mayhap shall aid a rogue to the gallows.... And now, prithee, look to this arm o’ mine.”
Deftly the Corporal unbuttoned and rolled back sleeve and ruffled wrist-band, discovering an ugly graze that scored Sir John’s arm from elbow to wrist.
“Painful, sir?”
“The smart is tolerable,” answered Sir John, wincing a little as the Corporal lapped the wound in the neckerchief he had whipped off for the purpose—“tolerable, Bob, and may be a blessing in disguise.”
“How so, your honour?”
“Nay, dispatch, Bob; the sooner we are away from here the better.... They may try again, so hurry, man!”
The bandage in place, the Corporal sprang to saddle and, setting spurs to their willing horses, they had soon left that place of danger far behind.