, "I too will be a pedler." Hearing the row, he
turned round, and saw his master just coming down with that stricken
face.

Tom could not read his own name in print or manuscript; and these are
the fellows that beat us all at reading countenances: he saw in a moment
that some great calamity had fallen on Griffith's head; and nature
stirred in him. He darted to his master's side, and seized the bridle.
"What is up?" he cried.

But Griffith did not answer nor notice. His ears were almost deaf, and
his eyes, great and staring, were fixed right ahead; and, to all
appearance, he did not see the people. He seemed to be making for the
horizon.

"Master! for the love of God, speak to me," cried Leicester. "What have
they done to you? Whither be you going, with the face of a ghost?"

"Away, from the hangman," shrieked Griffith, still staring at the
horizon. "Stay me not; my hands itch for their throats; my heart thirsts
for their blood; but I'll not hang for a priest and a wanton." Then he
suddenly turned on Leicester, "Let thou go, or--" and he lifted his
heavy riding-whip.

Then Leicester let go the rein, and the whip descended on the horse's
flank. He went clattering furiously over the stones, and drove the
thinner groups apart like chaff, and his galloping feet were soon heard
fainter and fainter till they died away in the distance. Leicester stood
gaping.

* * * * *

Griffith's horse, a black hunter of singular power and beauty, carried
his wretched master well that day. He went on till sunset, trotting,
cantering, and walking, without intermission; the whip ceased to touch
him, the rein never checked him. He found he was the master, and he went
his own way. He took his broken rider back into the county where he had
been foaled. But a few miles from his native place they came to the
"Packhorse," a pretty little roadside inn, with farm-yard and buildings
at the back. He had often baited here in his infancy; and now, stiff and
stumbling with fatigue, the good horse could not pass the familiar
place; he walked gravely into the stable-yard, and there fairly came to
an end; craned out his drooping head, crooked his limbs, and seemed of
wood. And no wonder. He was ninety-three miles from his last corn.

Paul Carrick, a young farrier, who frequented the "Packhorse," happened
just then to be lounging at the kitchen door, and saw him come in. He
turned directly, and shouted into the house, "H