In a few minutes there was a sharp knock at the door, and, when the landlord opened it, there entered a man wearing a brown mask and carrying a shapeless parcel under his arm.
"'Galloping Hermit!'" exclaimed the landlord, and it was evident that he was pleased to see his visitor.
"So you got my message," said the highwayman to the farmer.
"Aye, but I doubt if I've got a horse to sell that you would care to ride. What's become o' that mare o' yourn?"
"She's in the stables—I've just put her there. I want you to take her."
"Buy her? Well, I'll look at her, but buying and selling are two different things."
"Do you suppose I'd sell her?" was the answer. "No; I want you to take her and keep her—keep her until she dies, and then bury her in the corner of some quiet field. You're honest, and will do it if you say you will; and here's gold to pay you well for your trouble. She's done her work, and the last few days have finished her. She had to help me save a woman in the West Country, and it's broken her."
"I'll do it," said the farmer. "And you'll be wanting another horse?"
"Not yet. When I do you shall hear from me. Will you take the mare to-night? If I looked at her again I do not think I could let her go."
"Aye, it's like that with horses, we know," said the sympathetic farmer.
"I'll take her to-night."