“Oh, he is in port by now,” said David.

“Do you usually ease the animal of that part of his burden, sir?”

“No,” said David, sullenly.

Eve, who hated Mr. Talboys, and saw through his sneers, bit her lip and colored, but kept silence.

But Mr. Talboys, unwarned by her flashing eye, proceeded with his ironical interrogatory, and then it was that Eve, reflecting that both these gentlemen had done their worst against David, and that henceforth the battlefield could never again be Font Abbey, decided for revenge.  She stepped forward like an airy sylph, between David and his persecutor, and said, with a charming smile, “I will explain, sir.”

Mr. Talboys bowed and smiled.

“The reason my brother carries this side-saddle is that it belongs to a charming young lady—­you have some little acquaintance with her—­Miss Fountain.”

“Miss Fountain!” cried Talboys, in a tone from which all the irony was driven out by Eve’s coup.

“She begged David to ride her pony home; she would not trust him to anybody else.”

“Oh!” said Talboys, stupefied.

“Well, sir, owing to—­to—­an accident, the saddle came off, and the pony ran home; so then David had only her saddle to take care of for her.”

“Why, we escorted Miss Fountain to Royston, and we never saw Mr. Dodd.”

“Ay, but you did not go beyond Royston,” said Eve, with a cunning air.

“Beyond Royston? where? and what was he doing there?  Did he go all that way to take her orders about her pony?” said Talboys, bitterly.

“Oh, as to that you must excuse me, sir,” cried Eve, with a scornful laugh; “that is being too inquisitive.  Good-morning”; and she carried David off in triumph.

The next moment Mr. Talboys spurred on, followed by the phaeton.  Talboys’ face was yellow.

"La langue d’une femme est son epee."

“Sheer off and repair damages, you lubber,” said David, dryly, “and don’t come under our guns again, or we shall blow you out of the water.  Hum!  Eve, wasn’t your tongue a little too long for your teeth just now?”

“Not an inch.”

“She might be vexed; it is not for me to boast of her kindness.”

“Temper won’t let a body see everything.  I’ll tell you what I have done, too—­I’ve declared war.”

“Have you?  Then run the Jack up to the mizzen-top, and let us fight it out.”

“That is the way to look at it, David.  Now don’t you speak to me till we get home; let me think.”

At the gate of Font Abbey, they parted, and Eve went home.  David came to the stable yard and hailed, “Stable ahoy!” Out ran a little bandy-legged groom.  “The craft has gone adrift,” cried David, “but I’ve got the gear safe.  Stow it away”; and as he spoke he chucked the saddle a distance of some six yards on to the bandy-legged groom, who instantly staggered back and sank on a little dunghill, and there sat, saddled, with two eyes like saucers, looking stupefied surprise between the pommels.