It was a still, misty morning when the beggar, having harnessed his dogs, went out to look for the boy. When he was gone, Flemington fumbled with his shaking fingers for the different packets that he carried. All were there safely—his letters, his money. He trusted nobody, and he did not like having to trust the beggar.
His feverish head and the ague in his bones told him that he could scarcely hope to get to Aberbrothock on foot. His boots were still wet, and a bruise on his hip that he had got in falling yesterday had begun to make itself felt. He propped himself against the wall and reached out for the water beside him.
Wattie had been some time away when the barn door opened and the farm-woman appeared on the threshold, considering him with suspicious disfavour.
He dragged himself to his feet and bowed as though he were standing upon an Aubusson carpet instead of upon a pallet of withered heather. The action seemed to confirm her distrust.
“Madam,” said he, “I have to thank you for a night’s shelter and for this excellent refreshment. You are too good. I drink to you.”
He raised the broken delf bowl with the drain of water that remained in it. Being conscious of inhospitality, she was not sure how much irony lay in his words, and his face told her nothing.
“It’s the last ye’ll get here,” said she.
The more she looked at Flemington the more she was impressed by his undesirability as a guest. She was one of those to whom anything uncommon seemed a menace.
“Madam, I notice that you dislike me—why?”
“Wha are ye?” she inquired after a pause, during which he faced her, smiling, his eyebrows raised.