At the sound of Rhys’ name she looked up.
“If I tell ye something about him, will you give over?” asked the Pig-driver, shaking her by the shoulder.
“Yes, surely, Mr. Bumpett,” said Nannie, “I will. I be but a fool, an’ that I do know.”
“He’s safe,” said Bumpett. “Do ye hear? He’s safe. An’ I know where he is.”
“And where is he?”
“Ah! that’s telling. don’t you ask, my woman, an’ it’ll be the better for him.”
Nannie had quite regained her composure, and an unspeakable load rolled off her mind at her companion’s words. Ever since the morning when the mare had been found riderless, sniffing at the door of her box at Masterhouse, and the news of the toll-keeper’s death and Rhys’ flight had reached the mountain, waking and sleeping she had pictured his arrest.
“So long as he bides quiet where he is, there’s none can get a sight o’ him,” said the old man, “and when we do see our way to get him off an’ over the water—to Ameriky, maybe—I and them I knows will do our best. But he’s been knocked about cruel, for, mind ye, they was fightin’ very wicked an’ nasty, down by the toll.”
“Is he bad?” asked Nannie anxiously.
“He was,” replied Bumpett, “but he’s mending.”