It was just such a suspicion of his character that hindered Henry Holtspur from revealing to him the secret contained within those half-dozen letters—which he now entrusted to him for delivery, after giving him the names of the gentlemen for whom they were intended.
With a promise to perform the duty—apparently sincere—the woodman walked out of the room; but, as he turned off into the shadowy hall, a glance flung back over his shoulder betrayed some feeling towards his patron, anything but friendly.
Still more surly was the look cast upon the young Indian, as the latter—apparently with an unwilling grace—presented him with the parting cup.
There was no word spoken, no health drunk—neither of master, nor man. The ale vessel was emptied in sullen silence; and then thanklessly tossed back into the hands from which it had been received.
A gruff “good-night,” and Will Walford, striding off through the corridor, was soon lost to view.
Oriole turned back into the room occupied by his master; and, stopping near the door, stood waiting, for the latter to look round. On his doing so, the Indian elevated his right arm; and holding it horizontally, with the back of his hand upwards, he described a wide curve in an outward direction from his body.
“Good, you say? Who is good?”
The Indian made a motion, to signify that he had not completed his pantomime.
“Ah! you’ve something to add? Go on!”
The hand was again carried out from the body in a waving direction; but this time with the thumb turned upwards.