Once again the stifled monosyllable broke from the younger man’s lips.
Black’erchief Dick looked at his guide quickly. By the faint light of the winter moon he saw the man’s face was distorted strangely—once again the ghostly voice behind the hedge said distinctly, “Rum—rum—ru——.”
“Ho! ho! ho!” roared French, his laughter suddenly breaking forth. “Peace, Mother Swayle,” he shouted, “by our lakin! you had us well-nigh feared with your greeting.”
The Spaniard sheathed his knife.
“If ’tis a friend of thine, Master French,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “’tis of no offence to me. Though by my faith,” he added, as a dark figure in flowing garments bounded over the hedge and stood by the roadside, “’tis strange company you keep.”
The tall gaunt woman addressed as Mother Swayle shrank back into the hedge.
“Who is it with thee, Big French?” she said in her deep, tired voice.
“Black’erchief Dick, new landed by the wall,” said French.
“Ah! I know naught of him—Peace, good swine—farewell, Rum!”
There was a note of finality in the last word and Big French started to walk on. “Rum,” he said over his shoulder, and added to Dick in an undertone, “’Tis only a poor crone—peace to her—her wit’s diseased.”