Jeffray understood her meaning of a sudden. His sensitive face grew strangely stern and thoughtful, and there was a tightness about his mouth, a steadiness in his eyes that would have puzzled Mr. Lancelot Hardacre.
“You keep the pistols by you?” he asked, quietly.
Bess pointed to the rock where her red cloak lay.
“See, one is there,” she said. “They are the best friends I have in Pevensel. I look to the priming every day.”
Jeffray’s usually smooth brow was still knotted in thought.
“I wonder if I could help you, Bess,” he said.
She gazed at him curiously, with one hand at her throat.
“Perhaps,” she answered.
“How?”
She glanced round her rapidly as though accustomed to fear what the woods might conceal. The sun was low in the west and the forest-clad valley full of golden mist. She took her cloak and pistol from the rock, and pointed to a path that branched off from the main ride into a larch-wood, telling Jeffray that they could reach the Beacon Rock heath by the path.