He was interrupted by a violent knocking at the door, which, being thrown wide open, showed a man fully armed and holding the reins of a steaming and apparently exhausted horse.
"Host!" he shouted. "Where or which is the host?"
Old Giles Perrin, the innkeeper, came forward and awaited his commands.
"Now, sirrah, on thy life, hasten! Provender for my beast; a cup of spiced ale for myself. With all dispatch, man, for I am on the service of the State!"
The stranger strode into the room, stooped and replaced one of the overturned stools, seated himself thereon, and, removing a cloth that encircled his neck, wiped his heated brow vigorously. Then he stared haughtily around at the assembled company, seized the cup that old Giles brought, and drained it at one gulp.
I remarked that he spoke with an accent totally different from the Southern dialect of our part of Hampshire and Sussex, but my doubts were soon set at rest.
"How far down yon road is't to Petersfield? And is one like to meet aught of footpads, drawlatches, or vagrants of that condition?"
It was my father who answered him, yet barely had he opened his mouth when the stranger clapped him on the shoulder:
"By all the powers of darkness! You, S----"
"Hold, man!" replied my father in a tone that implied no denial. Then, in an undertone, I heard him say: "I am now but Owen Wentworth, gentleman yeoman, at your service."