“You’re just like me,” said the vagrant with a laugh, as he strode off down the unfrequented road. The object walked with incredible speed, laughing to himself now and then, and Armstrong was forced to trot his horse to keep up with him. On arriving at a slight eminence the guide waved his long arm toward a steading in the valley, which looked like a deserted group of farm buildings, and said,—“There’s a fine lot of cattle down yonder.”
“I can see no signs of them.”
“No, no! They’re well stabled. Nothing lasts in the fields nowadays. They’re not such fools as that. This herdsman knows when to keep his beasts in shelter.” And with this the vagabond raised a shrill shout that echoed from the opposite hills.
“What are you crying like that for?” asked Armstrong, without showing any alarm.
“Oh, just to let the farmer know we’re coming. Always give friendly warning in these parts, and then you may not get something in your inside that’s hard to digest. That’s a fool’s advice, and costs you nothing.”
“Your cry meets with no response,” said Armstrong, laughing at the shallow cunning of his treacherous guide, for his keen eyes noted crouching figures making way along the other side of a hedge, and he knew that if he went down the lane, at whose junction with the road the beggar stood with repressed eagerness, he would find himself surrounded. Nevertheless he followed without betraying any knowledge of the trap he was entering.
As they neared the farmhouse a voice cried sharply, “Halt!” and an armed man sprang up from behind the hedge, cutting off retreat, if such had been attempted. While the others made through the hedge to the lane, the tattered man as nimbly put the hedge between himself and his victim, as if fearing a reprisal, laughing boisterously but rather nervously.
“Brave Captain, I’ve brought you a fine horse and a gay gentleman, and the two are for sale.”
The man who had cried “Halt!” stepped forth from the shelter of the nearest outbuilding, a drawn sword in his hand, followed by two others with primed matchlocks, stolidly ready for any emergency. Four others closed up the rear coming down the lane. There was no mistaking the fact that the man with the drawn sword was an officer, even if the object had not addressed him as Captain, a salutation to which he paid no attention; for although his uniform showed little difference from that of his men, he had in his stern face the look of one accustomed to obedience. The horseman had drawn up at the word, and sat quite nonchalantly on his steed, as if this were an affair of no particular concern to himself.
“Who are you?” asked the captain.