Anon he came upon Busy and Toogood painfully trudging in the mire, and singing lustily to keep themselves cheerful and warm.

Sir Marmaduke drew the mare in, so as to keep pace with his men.  On the whole, the road had been more lonely than he liked and he was glad of company.

Outside the Lamberts’ cottage a small crowd had collected.  From the crest of the hill the tiny bell of Acol church struck the hour of two.

Squire Boatfield had ridden over from Sarre, and Sir Marmaduke—­as he dismounted—­caught sight of the heels and crupper of the squire’s well-known cob.  The little crowd had gathered in the immediate neighborhood of the forge, and de Chavasse, from where he now stood, could not see the entrance of the lean-to, only the blank side wall of the shed, and the front of the Lamberts’ cottage, the doors and windows of which were hermetically closed.

Up against the angle formed by the wall of the forge and that of the cottage, the enterprising landlord of the local inn had erected a small trestle table, from behind which he was dispensing spiced ale, and bottled Spanish wines.

Squire Boatfield was standing beside that improvised bar, and at sight of Sir Marmaduke he put down the pewter mug which he was in the act of conveying to his lips, and came forward to greet his friend.

“What is the pother about this foreigner, eh, Boatfield?” queried de Chavasse with gruff good-nature as he shook hands with the squire and allowed himself to be led towards that tempting array of bottles and mugs on the trestle table.

The yokels who were assembled at the entrance of the forge turned to gaze with some curiosity at the squire of Acol.  De Chavasse was not often seen even in this village:  he seldom went beyond the boundary of his own park.

All the men touched their forelocks with deferential respect.  Master Jeremy Mounce humbly whispered a query as to what His Honor would condescend to take.

Sir Marmaduke desired a mug of buttered ale or of lamb’s wool, which Master Mounce soon held ready for him.  He emptied the mug at one draught.  The spiced liquor went coursing through his body, and he felt better and more sure of himself.  He desired a second mug.

“With more substance in it, Master Landlord,” he said pleasantly.  “Nay, man! ye are not giving milk to children, but something warm to cheer a man’s inside.”

“I have a half bottle of brandy here, good Sir Marmaduke,” suggested Master Mounce with some diffidence, for brandy was an over-expensive commodity which not many Kentish squires cared to afford.

“Brandy, of course, good master!” quoth de Chavasse lustily, “brandy is the nectar of the gods.  Here!” he added, drawing a piece of gold from a tiny pocket concealed in the lining of his doublet, “will this pay for thy half-bottle of nectar.”

“Over well, good Sir Marmaduke,” said Master Mounce, as he stooped to the ground.  From underneath the table he now drew forth a glass and a bottle:  the latter he uncorked with slow and deliberate care, and then filled the glass with its contents, whilst Sir Marmaduke watched him with impatient eyes.