It was in the kitchen of the inn at Framlingham that Mr. Mitchelbourne came across the man who was afraid, and during the Christmas week of the year 1681.  Lewis Mitchelbourne was young in those days, and esteemed as a gentleman of refinement and sensibility, with a queer taste for escapades, pardonable by reason of his youth.  It was his pride to bear his part in the graceful tactics of a minuet, while a saddled horse waited for him at the door.  He delighted to vanish of a sudden from the lighted circle of his friends into the byways where none knew him, or held him of account, not that it was all vanity with Mitchelbourne though no doubt the knowledge that his associates in London Town were speculating upon his whereabouts tickled him pleasurably through many a solitary day.  But he was possessed both of courage and resource, qualities for which he found too infrequent an exercise in his ordinary life; and so he felt it good to be free for awhile, not from the restraints but from the safeguards, with which his social circumstances surrounded him.  He had his spice of philosophy too, and discovered that these sharp contrasts,—­luxury and hardship, treading hard upon each other and the new strange people with whom he fell in, kept fresh his zest of life.

Thus it happened that at a time when families were gathering cheerily each about a single fireside, Mr. Mitchelbourne was riding alone through the muddy and desolate lanes of Suffolk.  The winter was not seasonable; men were not tempted out of doors.  There was neither briskness nor sunlight in the air, and there was no snow upon the ground.  It was a December of dripping branches, and mists and steady pouring rains, with a raw sluggish cold, which crept into one’s marrow.

The man who was afraid, a large, corpulent man, of a loose and heavy build, with a flaccid face and bright little inexpressive eyes like a bird’s, sat on a bench within the glow of the fire.

“You travel far to-night?” he asked nervously, shuffling his feet.

“To-night!” exclaimed Mitchelbourne as he stood with his legs apart taking the comfortable warmth into his bones.  “No further than from this fire to my bed,” and he listened with enjoyment to the rain which cracked upon the window like a shower of gravel flung by some mischievous urchin.  He was not suffered to listen long, for the corpulent man began again.

“I am an observer, sir.  I pride myself upon it, but I have so much humility as to wish to put my observations to the test of fact.  Now, from your carriage, I should judge you to serve His Majesty.”

“A civilian may be straight.  There is no law against it,” returned Mitchelbourne, and he perceived that the ambiguity of his reply threw his questioner into a great alarm.  He was at once interested.  Here, it seemed, was one of those encounters which were the spice of his journeyings.

“You will pardon me,” continued the stranger with a great assumption of heartiness, “but I am curious, sir, curious as Socrates, though I thank God I am no heathen.  Here is Christmas, when a sensible gentleman, as upon my word I take you to be, sits to his table and drinks more than is good for him in honour of the season.  Yet here are you upon the roads to Suffolk which have nothing to recommend them.  I wonder at it, sir.”