We were out then from the green cup in which the Stone House lay. Looking back from the ridge, ere the trees took us into their company, I saw the old house stand grey to the morning; I saw a confusion of figures all about it; I saw a rider dashing from the gate and galloping of apace.
“Martin!” growled Roger. “He’s riding of for Rogues’ Haven to give Craike word. I’ve a mind to cut him off.”
“Who is Martin? Bart and he are brothers, aren’t they?”
“Martin and Bart Baynes, ay, they’re brothers, both rogues, spawn of old Mag Baynes’s son Adam,—he that was transported and died some year back. Ay, transported he was, but died. Craike’s men, Mart and Bart—rogues both!”
“Where does Rogues’ Haven lie?”
“That way”—with a sweep of his hand towards the rocky uplands. “Away, with the wood all about it.”
“Why the name?”
“Didn’t you see and hear enough, young sir, in Mag’s house?”
“Smugglers—ay, and worse—is that why?”
“Ay, ay; and there’s odd tales of old Edward, how his money come—” but he broke of—“I’m not forgettin’ you’re the old man’s grandson.”