“This ain’t——— Mr. Lilly white, I don’t believe this ain’t a Jack Spaniard.”
The clinks of bits and stirrup-irons came down in a waft again.
“That be hanged for a tale, Thorns,” the man with the lanthorn said sharply. “If this here ain’t Riego—or the other—I’ll ...”
I began to come out of my stupor.
“My name’s John Kemp,” I said.
The other grunted. “Hurry up, Thorns.”
“But, Mr. Lillywhite,” Thorns reasoned, “he don’t speak like a Dago. Split me if he do! And we ain’t in a friendly country either, you know that. We can’t afford to rile the gentry!”
I plucked up courage.
“You’ll get your heads broke,” I said, “if you wait much longer. Hark to that!”
The approaching horses had turned off the turf on to the hard road; the steps of first one and then another sounded out down the silent hill. I knew it was the Free Traders from that; for except between banks they kept to the soft roadsides as if it were an article of faith. The noise of hoofs became that of an army.