“By Jove!” cried the young man; and the girl thrilled to him because she felt he loved what was so much to her.

“Some space,” panted the old man, climbing back to his seat, and tucking the rug around him.  “Room to stretch a hoss here; and somethin’ for his windpipe better’n Owlbridge’s lung-tonic.”

Boy said nothing but stood breathing deep and with quiet eyes.  At her side was Billy Bluff, his shaggy hair blown back from his forehead and astrew across his face, lifting his nose as though to sniff the sunset.

They jogged quietly along the crest of the hills, travelling always toward the sun, over the ancient Pilgrim’s Way that runs from Pevensey, by the Holy Well in Cow Gap, and the Lamb on the hill at Eastbourne, past the Star at Alfiriston along the top of the Downs to that cathedral beyond the Arun, once a chapel of wood, whence St. Wilfrid set out to take the Gospel from the coast to the heathen dwelling in the dark and savage Andred’s Weald.

The slope was with them; and Goosey Gander made his own pace, slipping along with smooth and easy stride.

They followed the line of the telegraph poles, skirting steep coombes shrouded at the foot with beech woods, past round-eyed dew-ponds, at which cloaked shepherds were watering their flocks.  Once an encampment in the gorse caught their eyes.  A yellow van, an ancient horse or two hobbled in the gorse-bushes, a patch of brown tent, and a whiff of blue smoke rising from an unseen fire, betrayed the nature of the squatters.

The old man pointed them out with his whip.

“There they are, the beauties,” he said.  “Thought they wouldn’t be fur.  Rogues and rasqueals, Mr. Silver!” he cried, twiddling his whip, and raising his voice to a sort of chant.  “Rogues and rasqueals on h’every side, layin’ in wait for to take a little bit off you—­same as the Psalmist says.  And it’s no good talkin’ to ’em.  None whatebber.”  He dropped his voice to the old confidential note.  “Pinch the hair off the back o’ your head while you’re sleepin’, they would.  Wonder who they sneaked her off?”

He turned his rogue-eye on the young man on the chestnut pony jogging at his side, winked, and made a movement with his elbow.

“Course if they was to claim her, I got her off of an old friend o’ mine down in the West Country,” he said, raising his voice.  “Better still Ireland as further away.  Yes, South of Ireland—­a’ter Punchestown.  He’d better be dead, too, my old friend—­so he can’t tell no tales and deny no stories.”  He elaborated his idea with glee, clapping his sides with his elbows.  “Yes, that’s about it.  I bought her in at the sale of the effects of an old friend o’ mine, South of Ireland—­to help his widie.  That’s got it.  Good idee.  Very good idee.  Charity and business—­what they like.  Micky Mahon, his name was.  Died o’—­I must have it all pat on the tongue.  What did he die of, Brand?  You’re an artful little feller, settin’ there so smug and secret like a hen crocodile a-hatchin’ h’out h’its h’egg.”