He squatted on the grass, and watched Martin with a friendly glint in his eyes.
“My noddle still simmers like a boiling pot. What happens to-day, brother?”
“What God wills.”
Swartz looked at him intently.
“Fine philosophy, Martin Valliant, but God may leave a man with a noose about his neck. You would say that this is no affair of mine, nor is it, save that I have no lust for a man’s blood, or to see him kicking at the end of a rope. The Forest would be healthier than this sweet island.”
Martin stood idle, the bill hanging in his hand.
“I am here to serve,” he said.
“My friend, you have drunk of the magic cup. A man might wound you, and you would hardly feel it. But my Lord of Troy is no child of dreams. You are but a rat—to be sniffed out by terriers.”
“I am not alone.”
“Thunder—that’s where the trouble lies. This child with the eyes of midnight wonder——”