d in conclave over the
hind foot of a horse. Deio, the ostler, and Roberts, the farrier,
agreed in their verdict for a wonder; and Caradoc Wynne, the owner of
the horse, straightened himself from his stooping posture with a nod of
decision.

"Yes, it's quite plain I mustn't ride him to-night," he said. "Well,
I'll leave him under your care, Roberts, and will either come or send
for him to-morrow."

"Needn't do that, sir," said Roberts, "for I am going myself to
Abersethin on Friday; that will give him one day's complete rest, and
I'll bring him up gently with my nag."

"That will do better," said the young man. "Take care of him, Deio,"
he added, in good, broad Welsh, "and I will pay you well for your
trouble," and, with a pat on Captain's flank and a douceur in Deio's
ready palm, he turned to leave the yard. Looking back from under the
archway which opened into the street, with a parting injunction to
Roberts to "take care of him," he turned up the dusty High Street.

"Pagh!" he said, "it has been a jolly fair, but it hasn't sweetened the
air. However, I shall soon have left it behind me," and he stepped out
briskly towards the straggling end of the street, which merged into a
wild moorland country.

"_There's_ a difference between him and his father," said Deio to his
companion, as they led Captain back to his stall. "See the old 'Vicare
du' hunting between his coppers for a threepenny bit! Jar i man! you
would think it was a sovereign he was looking for."

"Yes," said Roberts, "the old Vicare is a keen man enough, but just;
always pays his bills regularly; he is not as black as they make him
out to be."

"No, I daresay! They say the devil isn't, either," said Deio.

It was very evident the person in question was no favourite of his.

Meanwhile Caradoc, or Cardo as he was called all over the country side,
the "Vicare du's" only son, had begun his tramp homewards with a light
heart and a brisk step. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with
health and youthful energy expressed in every limb and feature, with
jet black hair and sparkling eyes to match. His dark, almost swarthy
face, was lighted up by a pleasant smile, which seemed ever hovering
about the corners of his mouth, and which would make itself evident in
spite of the moustache which threatened to hide it.

The band of the local militia was practising in the open market hall as
he passed, and an old Welsh air struck familiarly on his ear.