“I agree with that statement, heartily,” quoth Mr. Samuel, with a philosophical grimace.
They rode out through the gate and over the bridge of tree-trunks with a vague, black gleam of water on either side. They had hardly crossed when the gate was slammed on them, and they heard the woman laughing, and calling with coarse words to her man.
“The pope deliver us, John, but I congratulate my throat on being sound.”
“Did you get a glimpse of the man’s face?”
“No.”
“Nor did I. He seemed shy of showing it.”
“The surly scoundrel! As I said before, John, thank Heaven there is a hell.”
They pushed on slowly in the dim light, riding over spongy grass-land that sloped upward toward the west. Everywhere the silence of the night still held, save for the fluttering call of an awakened bird. They had gone little more than a furlong when they came to the outstanding thickets of a wood, the trees rising black and strange against the heaviness of the sky. John Gore drew rein suddenly, and swung out of the saddle.
“What’s your whim, John?”
For he was leading his horse by the bridle toward a clump of beech-trees whose boughs swept close to the ground.