Abel, “nothing loath,” tripped down to the hall, and Martin, who was a fine young man, just verging on manhood, walked up, with a sorrowful countenance and a heart full of grief, toward the man, under whose humble roof he had passed some of his happiest hours. Martin's mother died in giving him birth, and Saul's wife had been his nurse. Although disgraced by 'Squire Stapleton, Saul Braintree had ever been a favourite companion of young Martin, not only on account of his intimate acquaintance with those sports in which Martin delighted, but because Saul had always testified a fondness for him from his boyhood upward; and, besides these attractions, the poacher's cottage contained a magnet, in the person of his pretty daughter, Peggy, which often drew Martin beneath its roof, when his father thought he was otherwise occupied.
“Well, Master Martin,” said Saul, as the young 'squire approached; “here you be at last! I were vool enow to think, I shouldn't ha' been here vive minutes avore you'd ha' come, if it were only to zay 'How are'ee, Zaul?'—But there, why should I grumble? Hit a deer in the shoulder, and then put the dogs on his scent, and what will the herd do?—Why, vly vrom un, to be zure, and no vools, neither;—but come, vine preaching doant cure corns:—virst and voremost—will'ee get me a drop o' brandy, Master Martin?—I be zo low az the grave, az you may guess; get me a thimble-vull, and then we'll talk a bit.”
“I have brought my shooting-flask, Saul,” replied Martin; “there is not much left in it.”
“Ah! this be kind!—this be good of 'ee, Master Martin. What, you thought how it would be with me? You knowed me long enow, to be zure that I should want summat to cheer me up, did 'ee? Never mind the cork, Master Martin,” continued Saul, as Martin, with a trembling hand, fruitlessly endeavoured to extract the cork; “put it betwixt my teeth, and pull; I'll warrant I do hould vast enow; or knock off the neck o' un against my handcuffs. What, it bean't your leather vlask, be it? Odd! cut un open wi' a knife.—I be a choaking for it, Master Martin;—I be, truly.”
By this time, Martin had pulled out part of the cork, and thrust the remainder of it through the neck. He handed the flask to Saul, who gulped down one half of its contents in a few seconds.
“There is not enough to divide,” observed Martin, “you may as well finish it.”
“No, thank'ee, Master Martin,” replied Braintree, returning the flask; “you'll want a drop for yourself, presently.”
“I, Saul!”
“Ay! you, Martin!—Look thee, lad,—there be times when the best ov us would be glad ov it Brandy be a God-send; but we don't use it—that is, zuch as I be, doan't—as we should. There be times, I tell'ee, when it be needed.”
“That's true enough,” said Martin, endeavouring to force a smile; “I have often been glad of it, after a three hours' tramp through the stubble and turnips, on a cold day, under a heavy double-barrelled gun, with a belt brimful of shot, and no birds in my pocket.”