"Then we had best bait at the tavern," said Foxcroft, quickly; and he led the way, riding beside the Weasel, who seemed utterly indifferent to his surroundings.
As we threaded our path through the crowd of men and boys I noticed that all were armed with rifles or old-time firelocks, and some even with ancient blunderbusses and bell-muzzled matchlocks. They appeared to be a respectable company, mostly honest yokels from the village, clad in plain homespun. A few wore the militia uniform; one or two officers were dressed in the full uniform of the Third Suffolk Regiment. They eyed us curiously as we passed through their straggling ranks; one called out: "The forest-runners are with us! Hurrah!" But, for the most part, they regarded us quietly, readily making way for me as I came up, leading Warlock with Silver Heels in the saddle, cloaked to the eyes.
A servant, wearing a pistol in his belt, brought us bread and hot stirabout in a great blue bowl. This dry fare we washed with ale, Silver Heels tasting a glass of Madeira to warm her chilled body.
It was a silent, thoughtful repast. Mount, sitting close beside the Weasel, urged the old man to eat, and he did, mechanically, with dazed eyes fixed on space.
One thing I began to notice: he no longer watched Silver Heels with that humble, devoted, hungering mien of a guardian hound; he scarcely appeared to be aware of her presence at all. Once only he spoke, asking what had become of his rifle; and Mount, eager and hopeful, brought his own rifle to the stricken man. But the Weasel had already forgotten what he had asked for, and he glanced at the weapon listlessly, his hands folded before him on the cloth.
Though her life had nigh been wrecked forever by this poor madman, Silver Heels, sitting at his elbow, watched over him with a serious tenderness and pity, doing for him those little offices which do become the children of the aged and infirm, and which, God grant, our children shall fulfil towards us. And so I saw her with the salt-box, savouring his stirabout so that it should be seasoned to his liking, and, with the cone of sugar, chip such morsels with her knife as he might mumble when he chose.
Presently Foxcroft went to the stables to see that our post-chaise was well provisioned for the journey, and Mount led Renard away to watch the feed-bags filled for our horses' provender.
Silver Heels, still wrapped in my riding-cloak, laid her slim hand on my arm, and we walked together to the tavern porch.
The road from Boston divides in front of the Meeting-house, forming two sides of a grassy triangle, on the base of which stands the Meeting-house, facing down the Boston Road. Near this village green a few armed men still lingered in the faint light of dawn, conversing in low voices, and glancing often down the deserted Boston Road.
A score of men sat around us on the damp tavern steps, listlessly balancing their rifles between their knees, some smoking wooden pipes, some dozing, some drinking early milk from a bucket brought by a small, freckled lad who wore neither hat nor shoes.