The icy downpour beat against his face and lashed the poor mare’s ears and mane until she tossed her head about blindly and impatiently, scarce heeding where she placed her feet.  The rider’s cloak was already soaked through, and soon even his shirt clung dank and cold to his aching back; the bridle was slippery with the wet, and his numbed fingers could hardly feel its resistance as the mare went stumbling on her way.

Beside horse and rider, Master Hymn-of-Praise Busy and Master Courage Toogood walked ankle-deep in mud—­one on each side of the mare, and lantern in hand, for the shades of evening would have drawn in ere the return journey could be undertaken.  The two men had taken off their shoes and stockings and had slung them over their shoulders, for ’twas better to walk barefoot than to feel the icy moisture soaking through leather and worsted.

It was then close on two o’clock of an unusually bleak November afternoon.  The winds of Heaven, which of a truth do oft use the isle of Thanet as a meeting place, wherein to discuss the mischief which they severally intend to accomplish in sundry quarters later on, had been exceptionally active this day.  The southwesterly hurricane had brought, a deluge of rain with it a couple of hours ago, then—­satisfied with this prowess—­had handed the downpour over to his brother of the northeast, who breathing on it with his icy breath, had soon converted it into sleet:  whereupon he turned his back on the mainland altogether, and wandered out towards the ocean, determined to worry the deep-sea fishermen who were out with their nets:  but not before he had deputed his brother of the northeast to marshal his army of snow-laden cloud on the firmament.

This the northeast, was over-ready to do, and in answer to his whim a leaden, inky pall now lay over Thanet, whilst the gale continued its mighty, wanton frolic, lashing the sleet against the tiny window-panes of the cottage, or sending it down the chimneys, upon the burning logs below, causing them to splutter and to hiss ere they changed their glow to black and smoking embers.

’Twere impossible to imagine a more discomforting atmosphere in which to be abroad:  yet Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse was trudging through the mire, and getting wet to the skin, even when he might just as well be sitting beside the fire in the withdrawing-room at the Court.

He was on his way to the smith’s forge at Acol and had ordered his serving-men to accompany him thither:  and of a truth neither of them were loath to go.  They cared naught about the weather, and the excitement which centered round the Quakeress’s cottage at Acol more than counterbalanced the discomfort of a tramp through the mud.

A rumor had reached the Court that the funeral of the murdered man would, mayhap, take place this day, and Master Busy would not have missed such an event for the world, not though the roads lay thick with snow and the drifts rendered progress impossible to all save to the keenest enthusiast.  He for one was glad enough that his master had seemed so unaccountably anxious for the company of his own serving men.  Sir Marmaduke had ever been overfond of wandering about the lonely woods of Thanet alone.