“God bless you, Captain.

“Your obedient servant,

“JOSIAH.”

The Squire halted in the open pine forest on a wood-road behind the cabin.  He threw one leg over the pommel and sat still with the ease of a horseman in any of the postures the saddle affords.  “Read me both of those letters again, and slowly.”

This time John made no remarks.  When he came to the end of Josiah’s letter, he looked towards the silent figure seated sideways.  The Squire made no comment, but searched his pockets for the flint and steel he always carried.  Lighting his pipe he slid to the ground.

“Take the rein, John,” he said, “or the mare will follow me.”

Penhallow was deep in the story these letters told, and he thought best when walking.  John sat in his saddle watching the tall soldierly figure move up the road and back again to the cabin his ancestors had held through one long night of fear.  John caught sight of the face as Penhallow came and then turned away on his slow walk, smoking furiously.  He sat still, having learned to be respectful of the long silences to which at times Penhallow was given.  Now and then with a word he quieted the uneasy mare—­a favourite taught to follow the master.  At last Penhallow struck his pipe on a stone to empty it, and by habit carefully set a foot on the live coal.  Then he came to the off side of his mare and took the rein.  Facing John, he set an elbow on the horse’s back and a hand on his own cheek.  This was no unusual attitude.  He did not mount, but stood still.  The ruddy good-humoured face, clean-shaven and large of feature, had lost its look of constant good-humour.  In fact, the feature language expressed the minute’s mood in a way which any one less familiar with the man than John might have read with ease.  Then he said, in an absent way, “Are we men of the North all cowards like Josiah?  They think so—­they do really think so.  It is helping to make trouble.”  Then he lifted himself lightly into the saddle, with swift change of mood and an odd laugh of comment on his conclusion, as he broke into a gallop.  “Let us get into the sun.”

John followed him as they rode swiftly over a cross-road and out on to the highway.  Again the horses were walking, and Penhallow said, “I suppose you may not have understood me.  I was suddenly angry.  It is a relief sometimes to let off steam.  Well, I fancy time will answer me—­or that is what I try not to believe—­but it may—­it may.  Let us talk of something else.  I must find out from Rivers just how well you are prepared for the Point.  Then I mean to give you every night an hour or so of what he cannot teach.  You ride well, you know French and German, you box—­it may be of service, keep it up once a week at least.  I envy you the young disciplined life—­the simpleness of it—­the want of responsibilities.”

“Thank you, sir,” returned John, “I hope to like it and to do you credit, uncle.”