The surgeon nodded slightly. He was more discreet than his friend.
When they had walked nearly a mile in the snow, the Major began to complain.
"The Devil!" said he; "this is queer walking. My boots are full of water. I shall catch my death."
The surgeon smiled satirically, comparing silent Griffith's peril with his second's.
Griffith took no notice. He went like Fortitude plodding to Execution.
Major Rickards fell behind, and whispered Mr. Islip,—
"Don't like his looks; doesn't march like a winner. A job for you or the sexton, you mark my words."
They toiled up Scutchemsee Nob, and when they reached the top, they saw Neville and his second, Mr. Hammersley, riding towards them. The pair had halters as well as bridles, and, dismounting, made their nags fast to a large blackthorn that grew there. The seconds then stepped forward, and saluted each other with formal civility.
Griffith looked at the gray horse, and ground his teeth. The sight of the animal in Neville's possession stirred up his hate, and helped to steel his heart. He stood apart, still, pale, and gloomy.