The flash of the missing weapon.
A sharp-pointed cruel-looking blade of some description; but though Ruth, thanks to Master Lockit's instructions, could tell you a dagger from a sword, and a rapier from either, a vast deal better than some folks could, she was not able to give a name to this three-edged knife, with its short dagger-shaped hilt of wood that stuck up slantwise high and dry out of the water, among the white rush stamens. One like that she had never seen. No great marvel, however, if she had not, for the pattern was of quite recent French devising, and hardly likely so soon to have found its way into a peaceful little Hertfordshire hamlet, in the ordinary course of events; but Ruth, as she bent over the water's edge with eyes fixed on the thing, felt sure that something extraordinary was going on about and around her. Something too fearful to guess at. Never a doubt that this sword or spear, or whatever might be its hateful name, was the thing which the man Rumsey had let slip from his bundle on leaving the barge. That like one viper of its poisonous brood, the thing was but one of more of its kind, was equally clear. But come what might, thought Ruth, its own special and individual chances of fulfilling the fearful end it was fashioned for, should not be left it; and stealing down by the parapet, and along by the water's edge till she reached the spot, she knelt and stretched forward her hand, grown cold as death, but steady and straight to its purpose; and seizing the hilt of the weapon, dragged it, dripping with the diamond bright drops from the water, under her cloak. Ruth strangely armed. Then casting one keen glance round, and upwards towards the inn, she sped along the bank, never stopping till she reached the postern.
CHAPTER VII.
MISTRESS SHEPPARD DOES NOT CARE FOR HER GUESTS.
Mistress Sheppard was almost as perfect a specimen of a landlady, as her establishment was a model of an inn; for who has not heard of that famous King's Arms, within whose snug shelter Master Isaak Walton loved to rest and sup, with a friendly gossip after his day's angling in the waters of the "Silver Lea," which almost washed the ancient hostelry's walls?
The landlady of the inn.
Decidedly, even to her very little tempers, Mistress Sheppard was a model of her class. When the world wagged to her liking, her plump peony cheeks so dimpled over with smiling good-humour, and her voice, albeit always a trifle shrill, was so kindly, that you experienced some difficulty in bringing yourself to believe, what nevertheless was true, that the face could look thunderously black, and the voice set your teeth on edge with its vinegar sharpness.
In justice, however, it ought to be added that sunshine prevailed in Mistress Sheppard's nature, and the storms threatened only when she had what she called her "reasons" for them. If Sheppard called them "prejudices, unaccountable prejudices," he only did so when she was safe out of earshot.
To his great vexation and discomfiture, the clouds hang very heavy on his wife's brow to-night. It is clear she does not like these guests who have sought the inn's hospitality; and when the party arriving by road, passes through into the parlour, she sits contemplating its door, which is close shut by the one who last enters, in grim meditative silence.
"I don't know whose looks I care for least among 'em," she muttered, as at last she slowly turned to fill the tankards of ale they had ordered. "Eyes on a more hang-dog crew I never set. With the brims o' their hats as hollow as cabbage leaves, as if they was ashamed o' their own ugly faces; as well they may be, and downright afeard to be seein' what mine was like. Why, I give you my word, there wasn't one o' the lot looked my way, to give me so much as a civil good e'en, as they passed. That's manners for you!"