‘Where did my wife pick you up?’ he asked.

‘On the bridge,’ I answered, ’where a mob—­as I take it, of your retainers—­were having at me with pitchforks as a prelude to cutting my throat.’

‘Was this your first meeting?’

I opened my eyes upon him, with a lift of the brows.  ‘Yes,’ said I quietly, as though marvelling why he asked it.  I think he had the grace to feel abashed.  At any rate he lowered his eyes; nor though he lifted them presently did he seem able to fix them upon mine.

’You were some sort of rearguard, I suppose?  They tell me the main body of your horse rode clean through and escaped.  Do you happen to know what became of Chester?’

‘Chester?’ I echoed.

’He commanded our post at the bridge, as I understand. . . .  When I say “ours” ’tis from habit merely.  In the early part of the campaign I led a troop, but withdrew from His Majesty’s service more than a month ago, not being able to stomach Dick Grenville.  You know Dick Grenville?’

‘By repute.’

’But not Chester? . . .  Chester was at one time his led-captain:  but they have quarrelled since, and it looks as if—­’

He did not finish the sentence, but left me to guess what remained.

‘You mean,’ said I, ’it looks as if Chester sold the pass?  Well, if he did, I know nothing about it, or about him.  This is the first I have heard of him.  But speaking at a venture, I should say that either his neck’s in a halter or he has changed sides and is riding off with our troops.’

Sir Luke nodded, but said nothing; and after a while strode to the window.  When he spoke again it was with his back turned to me.

‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘my fellows didn’t kill you out of hand.’

‘They were making a plaguy near bid for it,’ I answered; ’but Lady Glynn interposed.’

’And that’s the strange part of the business.  All rebels, as a rule, are poison to her. . . .  As for me, you understand, a man on campaign picks up a sort of feeling for the enemy.  He gets to see that all the right’s not on one side, nor all the wrong on t’other.  I dare say, now, that your experience is much the same?’ I did not answer this and after a pause he went on, still staring out of window, ’I believed in the Lord’s Anointed, for my part:  but allowing, for argument’s sake, the right’s on that side, there’s enough villainy and self-seeking mixed up with it to poison an honest man. . . .  I shouldn’t wonder now that there’s something to be said even for Chester.’

‘That hardly seems possible,’ said I, wondering what his drift might be.

’I don’t know.  Wait till you’ve heard his side of the case. . . .  But to go back to our subject—­you see I don’t bear you any malice:  I am out of this quarrel, and—­saving my lady’s obstinacy—­I don’t see—­I really don’t see why I should billet myself with His Majesty’s prisoners.  What’s more, I have an estate in the east of the county, a little this side of Plymouth.  They quartered a troop of your fellows upon it last year, and the place, I hear, is a wilderness. . . .  If I could get to it, or to Plymouth—­well, one good turn deserves another, eh?—­that is, if you’re fit to travel?’