Brother Peter Ward turned about sulkily.
"Don't know as I will," he grumbled, and trudged back into the house.
Then Hugh Ritson rode on. A thin sleet began to fall, and it drove hard into his face. The roads were crisp, and the horse sometimes stumbled; but the rider pressed on.
In less than half an hour he was riding into the town. The people who were standing in groups in the market-place parted and made space for him. They hailed him with respectful salutations. He responded curtly or not at all. Notwithstanding his long ride, his face was still pale, and his lips were bloodless. He stopped at the court-yard leading to the front of the Pack Horse. Old Willie Calvert, the innkeeper, stood there, and touched his cap when Hugh approached him.
"My brother Paul slept here a few nights ago, I hear?" said Hugh.
"So he did," said the innkeeper.
"What night was it?"
"What night? Let me see—it were a week come Wednesday."
"Did you see him yourself?"
"Nay; I were lang abed."