He was disposed to think it all the trick of an excited imagination, but he began to be not sorry that the day for departure was drawing near.  If he had provoked the enmity of the robber chief, or if by a remoter chance the identity of his companion had been suspected, it would be better to be off without much more delay so soon as the wedding should be over.

Joan herself was nervous and fearful, and seldom set foot outside the door of her home.  She sometimes said with a shiver that she was certain there were fierce men hiding about the house ready to carry her off if she did; and though her father and brother laughed at her fear, they humoured her, and were willing enough to let her keep safe at home:  for Simon Dowsett was not a man to be trifled with, and he might very likely have heard before now that the woman he had vowed to make his wife was to be given in marriage to his rival.

The days, however, fled by without any event to arouse real disquiet, and on the morrow Joan would pass to the sturdy keeping of the young smith, whose new house stood well flanked between his father’s dwelling and the forge in the heart of the village where law-abiding persons dwelt in fair security.

The eve of the marriage day had come and gone.  The household had retired to rest.  Paul and Edward were in their raftered room, which was better lighted by the fire of logs than by the feeble rush light glimmering on the table.  Fuel was so plentiful in that wooded country that all the hearths blazed in cold weather with the sputtering pine logs, which gave out an aromatic scent pleasant to the nostril.

As they closed the door behind them, Edward laid a hand upon his companion’s arm and said: 

“Good Paul, shall we two hold a vigil this night?  I misdoubt me that some mischief is meditated toward Mistress Joan this night.  I would that we might keep watch and ward.”

“With all my heart,” answered Paul readily, instinctively laying his hand upon his poniard.  “But what makes you think that evil is intended?”

“I scarce know, but so it is.  Noted you not how quiet and sluggish the dogs were at suppertime tonight?  They would scarce come to receive a morsel of meat, and as often as not turned away in indifference, and curled themselves to sleep again.  Indoors and out they are all alike.  And did you not hear Jack Devenish say as he came in from his last round that he feared the great black watchdog in the yard would not live till morning, he seemed so sick and out of sorts?  I wondered then that no one thought strange hands had been tampering with them; but all the farmer said was that he supposed they had gorged themselves upon the refuse meat of the sheep they had been killing—­and I liked not to say ought to alarm them, for it may be as they say, and surely they ought best to know.”