ridin' out
wi' the yeomanry so braave in black an' silver with your sword drawed!
That'll spoil your market for pluck an' valour, anyways. An' when I've
done all court-martial gives me, I'll come back!"

He swung away as he spoke; and the other sat on motionless for an hour
after Will had departed.

John Grimbal's pipe went out; his dog, weary of waiting, crept to his
feet and fell asleep there; live fur and feathers peeped about and
scanned his bent figure, immobile as a tree-trunk that supported it; and
the gun, lying at hand, drew down a white light from a gathering
gloaming.

One great desire was in the sportsman's mind,--he already found himself
hungry for another meeting with Blanchard.

CHAPTER XI

PHOEBE TAKES THOUGHT

That night Will sat and smoked in his bedroom and talked to Phoebe, who
had already gone to rest. She looked over her knees at him with round,
sad eyes; while beside her in a cot slept her small daughter. A candle
burned on the mantelpiece and served to illuminate one or two faded
pictures; a daguerreotype of Phoebe as a child sitting on a donkey, and
an ancient silhouette of Miller Lyddon, cut for him on his visit to the
Great Exhibition. In a frame beneath these appeared the photograph of
little Will who had died at Newtake.

"He thinks he be gwaine to bide his time an' let me stew an' sweat for
it," said the man moodily.

"Awnly a born devil could tell such wickedness. Ban't theer no ways o'
meetin' him, now you knaw? If you'd speak to faither--"

"What 's the use bringing sorrow on his grey hairs?"

"Well, it's got to come; you knaw that. Grimbal isn't the man to
forgive."

"Forgive! That would be worst of all. If he forgived me now I'd go mad.
Wait till I've had soldier law, then us'll talk 'bout forgiving arter."

Phoebe shivered and began to cry helplessly, drying her eyes upon the
sheet.

"Theer--theer," he said; "doan't be a cheel. We 'm made o' stern stuff,
you an' me. 'T is awnly a matter of years, I s'pose, an' the reason I
went may lessen the sentence a bit. Mother won't never turn against me,
an' so long as your faither can forgive, the rest of the world's welcome
to look so black as it pleases."

"Faither'll forgive 'e."

"He might--just wance more. He've got to onderstand my points better
late days."

"Come an' sleep then, an' fret no more till marnin' light anyway."

"'Tis the thing hidden, hanging over my head, biding behind every
corner. I caan't