“Farmer,” cried he; “I give you a good day. You have a grey mare, I understand, of some little fame hereabouts. My officers require the use of her for the service of the Parliament. And I am come to take her forthwith. Also a sheep from your fold would not come amiss, but that you may send to the headquarters by one of your farm hands.”
He spoke with the free air of one who expected that his requests, or orders, would be observed as a matter of course.
Timothy stood stock still for a few moments, lost in wonder. Then his hot temper blazed forth in a volume of words.
“Why you knave—you close-cropped murdering rebel—you speak and carry yourself with the bearing of an honest King’s man. Get out of my yard this instant, or I’ll brain you on the spot. No horse or sheep of mine goes from here to the service of the King’s enemies.”
He flourished a large hay-fork dangerously near the horseman, and the steed began to back with alarm.
“Drop that fork,” cried the soldier, drawing his pistols, “I’ve no mind that there shall be any accident, but if you will advance, and if one of these weapons goes off, ’tis no fault of mine.”
But the old farmer’s blood was up.
“I’ll spit you as I would a goose,” cried he; “and all other such Republican knaves.”
The soldier pulled his horse aside, and levelled his pistol at the farmer’s head.
“Thou mad fool,” he cried. “If thou wilt rush to thy death, ’tis no concern of mine.”