“Well, I shall decide presently.  I suppose you won’t run away.  And it ’s no great matter if you do, for a fool can’t hide himself under his folly.”

“I sha’n’t run.  I want to get through with this and have it behind me.”

“You’re in a hurry now.”

“It ‘s just an’ right.  I knaw that.  An’ ban’t no gert odds who ’s informer.  But I want to have it behind me—­an’ you in front.  Do ’e see?  This out o’ hand, then it ‘s my turn again.  Keepin’ me waitin’ ’pon such a point be tu small an’ womanish for a fight between men.  ’T is your turn to hit, Jan Grimbal, an’ theer ’s no guard ’gainst the stroke, so if you’re a man, hit an’ have done with it.”

“Ah! you don’t like the thought of waiting!”

“No, I do not.  I haven’t got your snake’s patience.  Let me have what I’ve got to have, an’ suffer it, an’ make an’ end of it.”

“You’re in a hurry for a dish that won’t be pleasant eating, I assure you.”

“It’s just an’ right I tell ‘e; an’ I knaw it is, though all these years cover it.  Your paart ’s differ’nt.  I lay you ’m in a worse hell than me, even now.”

“A moralist!  How d’ you like the thought of a damned good flogging—­fifty lashes laid on hot and strong?”

“Doan’t you wish you had the job?  Thrashing of a man wi’ his legs an’ hands tied would just suit your sort of courage.”

“As to that, they won’t flog you really; and I fancy I could thrash you still without any help.  Your memory ’s short.  Never mind.  Get you gone now; and never speak to me again as long as you live, or I shall probably hit you across the mouth with my riding-whip.  As to giving you up, you’re in my hands and must wait my time for that.”

“Must I, by God?  Hark to a fule talkin’!  Why should I wait your pleasure, an’ me wi’ a tongue in my head?  You’ve jawed long enough.  Now you can listen.  I’ll give myself up, so theer!  I’ll tell the truth, an’ what drove me to desert, an’ what you be anyway—­as goes 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.