“Verily, I must look for another knave,” Raby answered, still laughing. “I shall scarce ride in comfort after this with the fellow at my heels.”
“Take my word for it,” Carew returned; “I have been magistrate and provost and chief executioner—as it would seem—here in Devon, for all things are shifted on my shoulders, and it is such-looking rogues as that one who keep the hangman from forgetting his trade.”
“Your uncle is a hard judge, Mistress Carew,” Raby remarked; “I should not wish to stand trial at his hands unless, perchance, he liked my face. Here is my poor groom, Thaxter, already doomed to hang for his.”
“To speak truth, he has an evil countenance, Master Raby,” she answered quietly, but with a smiling glance at her uncle.
“You are prejudiced by Sir William,” Raby declared. “I am willing to wager that the poor fellow is as honest as many with a fair exterior.”
“I will take the wager, Raby,” Carew remarked calmly, “and you will be the loser, therefore make it not too heavy on your purse.”
“Fifty pounds, and I do not fear to lose,” the other cried, still much diverted by the matter.
“I am that much a gainer,” Sir William said, “but I will pray you not to test the affair at the moment by making him our guide. I am not willing to trust my neck and Betty’s to his mercies.”
“Mistress Carew shall take no risks,” Raby replied; “you and I will settle the wager when we are not in so fair company. Indeed, I trust that we shall make this journey safely and with expedition, since my lord privy seal was urgent that the matter should be speedily accomplished.”
“Will they be ready for our reception? Has yonder lady been notified, or is this the act of Cromwell only?” Carew asked gravely.