My doubts on that point, if I entertained any, were soon dispelled:  the wheels, which had ceased moving for a moment or two, were once again in motion, and were now evidently moving down the winding path which led to my retreat.  Leaving my cart, I came forward and placed myself near the entrance of the open space, with my eyes fixed on the path down which my unexpected and I may say unwelcome visitors were coming.  Presently I heard a stamping or sliding, as if of a horse in some difficulty; and then a loud curse, and the next moment appeared a man and a horse and cart; the former holding the head of the horse up to prevent him from falling, of which he was in danger, owing to the precipitous nature of the path.  Whilst thus occupied, the head of the man was averted from me.  When, however, he had reached the bottom of the descent, he turned his head, and perceiving me, as I stood bareheaded, without either coat or waistcoat, about two yards from him, he gave a sudden start, so violent that the backward motion of his hand had nearly flung the horse upon his haunches.

“Why don’t you move forward?” said a voice from behind, apparently that of a female; “you are stopping up the way, and we shall be all down upon one another;” and I saw the head of another horse overtopping the back of the cart.

“Why don’t you move forward, Jack?” said another voice, also of a female, yet higher up the path.

The man stirred not, but remained staring at me in the posture which he had assumed on first perceiving me, his body very much drawn back, his left foot far in advance of his right, and with his right hand still grasping the halter of the horse, which gave way more and more, till it was clean down on its haunches.

“What’s the matter?” said the voice which I had last heard.

“Get back with you, Belle, Moll,” said the man, still staring at me:  “here’s something not over-canny or comfortable here.”

“What is it?” said the same voice; “let me pass, Moll, and I’ll soon clear the way,” and I heard a kind of rushing down the path.

“You need not be afraid,” said I, addressing myself to the man,—­“I mean you no harm; I am a wanderer like yourself—–­come here to seek for shelter—­you need not be afraid; I am a Rome chabo {82} by matriculation—­one of the right sort, and no mistake.  Good day to ye, brother; I bids ye welcome.”

The man eyed me suspiciously for a moment—­then, turning to his horse with a loud curse, he pulled him up from his haunches, and led him and the cart farther down to one side of the dingle, muttering as he passed me, “Afraid?  Hm!”

I do not remember ever to have seen a more ruffianly-looking fellow:  he was about six feet high, with an immensely athletic frame; his face was black and bluff, and sported an immense pair of whiskers, but with here and there a grey hair, for his age could not be much under fifty.  He wore a faded blue frock coat, corduroys, and highlows—­on his black head was a kind of red nightcap, round his bull neck a Barcelona handkerchief—­I did not like the look of the man at all.