st request you
will keep your own way."

"My way is yours," said the pertinacious Master Ganlesse, as he called
himself; "and we will both travel the safer, that we journey in company.
I have the receipt of fern-seed, man, and walk invisible. Besides, you
would not have me quit you in this lane, where there is no turn to right
or left?"

Peveril moved on, desirous to avoid open violence--for which the
indifferent tone of the traveller, indeed, afforded no apt pretext--yet
highly disliking his company, and determined to take the first
opportunity to rid himself of it.

The stranger proceeded at the same pace with him, keeping cautiously on
his bridle hand, as if to secure that advantage in case of a struggle.
But his language did not intimate the least apprehension. "You do me
wrong," he said to Peveril, "and you equally wrong yourself. You are
uncertain where to lodge to-night--trust to my guidance. Here is an
ancient hall, within four miles, with an old knightly Pantaloon for its
lord--an all-be-ruffed Dame Barbara for the lady gay--a Jesuit, in a
butler's habit, to say grace--an old tale of Edgehill and Worster fights
to relish a cold venison pasty, and a flask of claret mantled with
cobwebs--a bed for you in the priest's hiding-hole--and, for aught I
know, pretty Mistress Betty, the dairy-maid, to make it ready."

"This has no charms for me, sir," said Peveril, who, in spite of
himself, could not but be amused with the ready sketch which the
stranger gave of many an old mansion in Cheshire and Derbyshire, where
the owners retained the ancient faith of Rome.

"Well, I see I cannot charm you in this way," continued his companion;
"I must strike another key. I am no longer Ganlesse, the seminary
priest, but (changing his tone, and snuffling in the nose) Simon Canter,
a poor preacher of the Word, who travels this way to call sinners to
repentance; and to strengthen, and to edify, and to fructify among the
scattered remnant who hold fast the truth.--What say you to this, sir?"

"I admire your versatility, sir, and could be entertained with it at
another time. At present sincerity is more in request."

"Sincerity!" said the stranger;--"a child's whistle, with but two notes
in it--yea, yea, and nay, nay. Why, man, the very Quakers have renounced
it, and have got in its stead a gallant recorder, called Hypocrisy, that
is somewhat like Sincerity in form, but of much greater compass, and
combines the whole gamut. Come,