Sir Silas.
“What should I know about a thief’s nag, Jonas Greenfield?”
“And didst thou let him go, Jonas,—even thou?” said Sir Thomas. “What! are none found faithful?”
“Lord love your worship,” said Jonas Greenfield; “a man of threescore and two may miss catching a kite upon wing. Fleetness doth not make folks the faithfuller, or that youth yonder beats us all in faithfulness.
“Look! he darts on like a greyhound whelp after a leveret. He, sure enough, it was! I now remember the sorrel mare his father bought of John Kinderley last Lammas, swift as he threaded the trees along the park. He must have reached Wellesbourne ere now at that gallop, and pretty nigh Walton-hill.”
Sir Thomas.
“Merciful Christ! grant the country be rid of him for ever! What dishonour upon his friends and native town! A reputable wool-stapler’s son turned gipsy and poet for life.”
Sir Silas.
“A Beelzebub; he spake as bigly and fiercely as a soaken yeoman at an election feast,—this obedient and conducible youth!”
Sir Thomas.