field below the grange, near the Calder.  Sir Ralph was saying yesterday, that the roan mare had pricked her foot.  You must wash the sore well with white wine and salt, rub it with the ointment the farriers call aegyptiacum, and then put upon it a hot plaster compounded of flax hards, turpentine, oil and wax, bathing the top of the hoof with bole armeniac and vinegar.  This is the best and quickest remedy.  And recollect, Peter, that for a new strain, vinegar, bole armeniac, whites of eggs, and bean-flour, make the best salve.  How goes on Sir Ralph’s black charger, Dragon?  A brave horse that, Peter, and the only one in your master’s whole stud to compare with my Robin!  But Dragon, though of high courage and great swiftness, has not the strength and endurance of Robin—­neither can he leap so well.  Why, Robin would almost clear the Calder, Peter, and makes nothing of Smithies Brook, near Downham, and you know how wide that stream is.  I once tried him at the Ribble, at a narrow point, and if horse could have done it, he would—­but it was too much to expect.”

“A great deal, ey should say, squoire,” replied the groom, opening his eyes to their widest extent.  “Whoy, th’ Ribble, where yo speak on, mun be twenty yards across, if it be an inch; and no nag os ever wur bred could clear that, onless a witch wur on his back.”

“Don’t allude to witches, Peter,” said Nicholas.  “I’ve had enough of them.  But to come back to our steeds.  Colour is matter of taste, and a man must please his own eye with bay or grey, chestnut, sorrel, or black; but dun is my fancy.  A good horse, Peter, should be clean-limbed, short-jointed, strong-hoofed, out-ribbed, broad-chested, deep-necked, loose-throttled, thin-crested, lean-headed, full-eyed, with wide nostrils.  A horse with half these points would not be wrong, and Robin has them all.”

“So he has, sure enough, squoire,” replied Peter, regarding the animal with an approving eye, as Nicholas enumerated his merits.  “Boh, if ey might choose betwixt him an yunk Mester Ruchot Assheton’s grey gelding, Merlin, ey knoas which ey’d tak.”

“Robin, of course,” said Nicholas.

“Nah, squoire, it should be t’other,” replied the groom.

“You’re no judge of a horse, Peter,” rejoined Nicholas, shrugging his shoulders.

“May be not,” said the groom, “boh ey’m bound to speak truth.  An see!  Tum Lomax is bringin’ out Merlin.  We con put th’ two nags soide by soide, if yo choose.”

“They shall be put side by side in the field, Peter—­that’s the way to test their respective merit,” returned Nicholas, “and they won’t remain long together, I’ll warrant you.  I offered to make a match for twenty pieces with Master Richard, but he declined the offer.  Harkee, Peter, break an egg in Robin’s mouth before you put on his bridle.  It strengthens the wind, and adds to a horse’s power of endurance.  You understand?”

“Parfitly, squoire,” replied the groom.  “By th’ mess! that’s a secret worth knoain’.  Onny more orders?”