“Good-even, master,” he answers, scanning me very close. “A wet night and foul ways.”
“Aye,” says I.
“Master Richard Coope, I think?” says he.
“The same, friend,” says I.
He fumbled at his reins and drew the horse nearer to him with a movement of his hand.
“The sword of the Lord,” he says in a low voice, looking full at me.
“And of Gideon!” says I.
He plunged his free hand into his breast and brought out a packet, which he presented to me without loss of time.
“That is my duty, master,” says he; “the rest you know as well as I. I will now go on my ways—there is more to be done to-night, bad as the weather is.”
He backed his horse from the door. I followed him into the still falling rain. He had one foot in the stirrup as I spoke to him.