They proceeded with as much caution as ever. Though outside, they were not yet safe from having their presence discovered, and their purpose suspected. The sky was clearer than when they had last looked upon it: for the thunderstorm, now over, had scattered the clouds, and deluged the earth with rain.
At the angle of the building they could make out the figure of a man, standing under the shadow of a tree. It was Walford. On seeing them, he stepped forth, and advanced to meet them.
“Theer be nobody by the front door,” he muttered, when near enough to be heard. “Stay by the steps, but don’t show yer faces. I’ll ha’ the horses round in a twinkle.”
Saying this, the traitor left them, and disappeared in the direction of the stables.
Obedient to his instructions, they took their stand; and, still conversing in whispers, awaited his return.
True to his promise almost in an instant the two horses were brought round—one led by himself, the other by Dancey.
The latter was too much occupied by the gold piece, glistening within his palm, to think of scrutinising the countenance of the giver.
“Odds luck, Wull!” said he, turning to his comrade, after the two horsemen had ridden off; “stable keepin’ appear to be a better bisness than windin’ the woodaxe! If they be all as liberal as these ’uns we shall ha’ a profitable night o’t.”
Walford assented with a shrug of his shoulders, and a significant grin—which in the darkness was not noticed by the unsuspicious deer-stealer.
Just then, Gregory Garth coming up armed with a tankard of ale—perhaps surreptitiously drawn from the cellar—interrupted the conversation, or rather changed it into a different channel: for it was still carried on to the accompaniment of a copious imbibing of the homebrew.