This matter being settled, much to Anthony Dacre’s chagrin and the further souring of his naughty temper, we presently set out for Pomfret, going thither by way of Darrington Mill and Carleton village, in passing through which the folk came out of their houses to stare at us. It gave me much pain to ride, and Captain Stott urged us forward at a brisk pace. But going up Swan Hill we came to a gentle walk and Stott brought his horse alongside mine and inquired after my condition.
“Why, sir,” says I, “I suffer somewhat smartly, I promise you, and this jolting does naught to help me.”
“Well,” says he, “you will have a speedy quittance of your pain, young gentleman, for as I am an honest man I believe Fairfax will shoot you.”
“I expect naught else,” says I.
“You’re mighty cool about it,” says he, “and I admire you for that. Lord! what is there that’s better than war for taking the sentiment out of a man? I am sure you’ll face a file of my troopers very brave,” he says, looking narrowly at me. “’Twill be but justice, young gentleman, for your offence was exceeding grave.”
“Sir,” says I, “you seem to know a deal more of my offence than I know myself. To tell you the truth,” says I, “I am in that state of mind which prevents me from caring whether I offend or not.”
“Oh, tired of life,” says he.
“On the contrary,” says I. “I want very much to live, and am cursing my fate as earnestly as I can. And yet,” I says, giving him a smile that was doubtless as grim as his own, “I am wise enough to know that all the cursing in the world won’t alter things.”
“You will certainly be shot,” says he.
“Well, sir,” I says, “then I will be shot. But if you would oblige a dying man—and you seem assured that I am one—say naught of it to my cousin there,” says I, pointing to Alison, who rode a little in advance, and out of earshot. “She has some inkling of it already, but you have such a cold-blooded style of saying things,” says I, “that she’ll look upon you as a butcher.”