“Well, Master Henry, since I must tell ye the truth o’t, I woant deny but I tuk some on ’em from him. He didn’t need ’em, nigh as much as myself—that hedn’t got nothin’ in the world, but them old duds as ye seed stuck up on sticks. I eased him o’ his trumpery; that I confess to.”
“What more did you do to him?”
This question was asked in a tone of stern demand.
“Nothing more—I declare it, Master Henry—only—to make sure against his follerin’ o’ me—I tied him, hand and foot; and left ’im in the old hut by the roadside—whar there would be less danger o’ his catchin’ cold i’ the night air.”
“How considerate of you! Ah, Gregory Garth! Gregory Garth! All this after what you promised me, and so emphatically too!”
“I swar, Master Henry, I han’t broke my promise to ye. I swar it!”
“Haven’t broken your promise! Wretch! you only make matters worse by such a declaration. Didn’t you say just now, that it was after parting with me, you met this messenger?”
“That’s true; but you forgot, Master Henry, I promised to you that night should be my last upon the road: an’ it has been, an’ will be.”
“What mean you by this equivocation?”
“’Twar jest eleven, when you an’ yer young friend rode off. Thear war still an hour o’ the night to the good; and, as ill-luck would have it, jest then the feller kim ridin’ up, glitterin’ all over in spangles an’ satin, like a pigeon, as kep’ sayin’ ‘Come an’ pluck me!’ What cud I do? He wanted pluckin’, and I hadn’t the heart to refuse him. I did it; but I swar to ye Master Henry—an’ I swar it, as I hope for mercy hereafter—that I had him stripped afore it struck twelve. I heard the bells o’ Peters Chaffont a ringin’ that hour, jest as I was ridin’ away from the ruin.”