As we fell to our luncheon, I asked Luke what had passed between him and the Dutchman who had engaged to assure him of my safety.
"'A leaned o'er fence, and 'a says, 'Icy Ingliss! Allride. Got-tam' I stared at un like a stuck pig, and 'a says again, 'Allride, Got-tam,' and grinned from ear to ear, so I knew he meant it friendly."
When we had ended our meal, Luke said, "Master Frank, I've heard cook say as foreigners can't make pastry."
"I dare say; what of that?"
"Why, it's a thundering lie; that's what it is, a thundering lie! I never ate such eel-pie in all my days. And ain't she spanking?"
"Who is spanking? Cook?"
"No, no; that Martha. 'Tis a nice, comfortable name. And what a pie it was!"
Luke's eyes were half closed, as if he were deep in meditation. At Staniforth, forgetful of his self-imposed duty of keeping guard over me, he would have remained dreaming in the boat if I had not reminded him of his duty.
The servant who admitted me whispered, "Master is very bad to-day, sir, but he will see you."
The old man sat bent forward over a turf fire, though the day was hot. The room was almost unbearably close to me. I had seen him not more than twice or thrice before, for he shrank from exposing his decrepitude to general view. Some years ago he had been thrown over his horse's head, and, in our country phrase, his back had been broken, that is, he had sustained an injury to the spine, which had deprived him of the use of his lower limbs. He was a pitiable object, cowering, almost bent double, over the fire; his long, white hair hanging about his shoulders, his beard reaching nearly to his knees, his yellow face puckered with a thousand wrinkles. But there was a fierce light in the eyes as he turned toward me and said—