“I have called myself a fool for it,” he said bluntly, “but the horse came and whinnied at me, and I had to ride him.”
“Then it is no horse of yours?”
“No, Peter Swartz’s.”
“Peter Swartz’s! Such a tale hangs crooked!”
“He is wounded and a prisoner.”
Then Mellis came out to them with eyes that smiled at old Falconer’s grim and puzzled face. He had to be told everything, how Martin had fought with Peter Swartz and his men, beaten them, and taken Swartz prisoner. And still John Falconer was not pleased. He had ridden out with a fixed distrust of Martin Valliant in his heart, and being an obstinate and dogged gentleman, he was in no hurry to surrender his distrust. Martin had tied up Swartz’s horse and gone back to his bridge-building.
“Very pretty—very pretty. But the fat’s in the fire, thanks to our champion’s valor. ’Twould have been almost better to have played fox and let them have the place.”
“And what would you have said of Martin Valliant if he had made no fight for it?”
“Praised his cunning, no doubt!”
“No; you would have called him a coward and a traitor.”