No. It was a peasant, on a sorry steed—the same who had passed the other way scarcely an hour before—the same who had given chagrin to Mistress Marion Wade.
It was the woodman, Will Walford.
The girl appeared desirous of shunning him; but he had caught sight of her crimson cloak, and an encounter was unavoidable.
“Aw, Bet! be it thee, girl?” he cried out, as he came within speaking distance. “Why it beeant all o’ an hour since I left thee at thy hum! What’s brought thee this way?”
“Father got home, soon after you left. He came by the wood path, and missed you, I suppose.”
“Like enough for that part o’ the story,” replied the man, appearing to suspect prevarication; “But that a’nt giein a answer to my question. I asked as how you yerself coomed this way?”
“Oh! me you mean, Will?”
“Ees—myself Bet!”
“Father brought a letter from Uxbridge for Master Holtspur. He was tired when he got home; and, as you had the old horse, he sent me over to Stone Dean with it.”
“But Stone Dean a’nt here—not by a good half-mile.”