Notwithstanding the commonness of his attire, there was nothing, either in his countenance or demeanour, that proclaimed him a mere messenger, or servant. On the contrary, the slight salute which he vouchsafed to the cavalier, the non-removal of his hat, and the air of cool confidence which he continued to preserve, after entering the room, bespoke a man, who, whatever his rank in life, was not accustomed to cringe in the presence of the proudest.
The face was rather serious than sour. The hair was dark—the skin slightly cadaverous—though the features were not disagreeable to look upon. Though far from cheerful in their expression, they were interesting from a certain cast denoting calmness and courage; traits of character further confirmed by the determined glance of a penetrating coal-black eye.
“By the dust upon your doublet, Master,” said Holtspur, after returning the salutation of his visitor, “you have left some miles of road behind you, since setting foot in the stirrup?”
“Twenty-five.”
“That is just the distance to London. Thence, I presume?”
“From London.”
“May I ask your errand?”
“I come from John,” replied the stranger, laying a significant emphasis on the name.
“You have a message for me?”
“I have.”