“I never heard on’t before,” I says. “Have you business with me, Master Morrel?”
He lugged a packet out of his breast and held it towards me so that I could see the handwriting.
“Do you recognise that fist, Master Coope?” says he.
“Why!” says I. “’Tis my uncle’s.” There was no mistaking the crabbed up and down strokes. “Sit you down, Master Morrel,” I says, “Faith! I had no idea that you carried news to me.”
“Why,” says he, “I know naught about the news, Master Coope. But suffer me,” he says, seating himself, “to give you some account of the manner in which this packet came into my hands.”
“With the greatest joy in the world,” says I. “But don’t be long in your story, for I am mighty impatient to read my uncle’s letter.”
“I will waste no words,” says he, settling himself in a fashion that made me think he intended at least an hour’s discourse. “It was after this fashion,” he says. “You must know, Master Coope, that I set out from the North some three weeks ago, bearing despatches from Sir Thomas Fairfax to the Earl of Essex. ’Tis a mighty desperate thing, let me tell you, this carrying of despatches through a lonely country where you may as like as not be stopped by stray parties of the enemy, or fall across some town or village that is mad for the King’s Majesty. What do you think, Master Coope, on that point?”
“Sir,” says I, “I am so exceeding loth to interrupt you that I shall not trouble you with my thoughts. This packet, now—?”
“Aye, to be sure,” says he, “Well, Master Coope, I progressed safely through divers difficulties—though, indeed, I had one adventure twixt Northallerton and York that has elements of danger in’t—until I had passed the town of Pomfret by some two miles, when my horse had the ill-fortune to fall and cut its right knee very severely. As you may believe, this put me in a sad position, for my orders were imperative. Now as I stood there, wondering what to do, there came along the road an old gentleman of exceeding fine presence, and with him the handsomest young gentlewoman that I have seen this many a day. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am in sore trouble, and crave your assistance. My horse has cut its knee somewhat severely—if your stable is at hand suffer me to lead him there that I may wash and bandage his wound.’ ‘Of a surety!’ says he, very prompt and polite. But he suddenly looked at me from head to foot. ‘What art thou?’ he says, with rank suspicion in his eyes. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am an officer in the Parliamentarian forces.’ ‘A rebel!’ says he. ‘A renegade! Get thee gone, traitor—expect no help from me—shouldst hang from yonder oak!’ ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I entreat you to forget that I am your foe, and beg you only to remember that I am a gentleman, a Christian, and in need.’”