Not an hour ago I had been aching for life and adventures,
and here I was, up to the loins in water, with a goddess
in my arms. Her right arm was round my neck,
and her cheek so near that I felt her sweet, warm
breath fanning my own. As the sounds died away,
I turned and looked at her face, and I had my reward.
Her eyes told me that she thanked and trusted me.
“Well done, fisherman!” she said for the
second time.
“You’re heavier than the jack,”
replied I, hitching her as far from the water as possible
before wading back. A minute later I put her down
on the bank with tumbled, yellow hair and face flaming
red. I examined her critically, and cried triumphantly,
“Not a stitch wet!”
THE SERGEANT OF DRAGOONS
I threw the jack across my shoulder and we started
for the Hanyards. Madam offered no explanations,
and I made no inquiries. It was obvious to me
that the dragoons had gone on to the little hedge ale-house,
a good, long mile away, where the road from the village
struck into a roundabout road to Stafford. Here,
in the “Bull and Mouth,” Mother Braggs
ruled by day and Master Joe by night, and here beyond
a doubt the stranger lady had tarried while her father
had gone on with the horses to the nearest smithy
at Milford.
There was ample time to get to the Hanyards, but still,
for safety’s sake, we kept behind hedges as
far as possible. She walked ahead, and I followed
behind, water oozing out of my boots and breeches at
every step, and the jack’s tail flopping against
my legs. Never had I gone home from fishing with
such prizes. What pleased me most was her silence.
It matched the trust in her eyes. Except for
brief instructions as to the direction, no word passed
until we gained the Hanyards from the rear, and I led
her into the house-place unobserved by anyone.
“There is little time to talk,” I began.
“The dragoons are certain to come here, as this
is the only house between the inn and the village.
Your father is, you fear, a prisoner, and indeed it
seems the only explanation of his absence. I
do not ask why. I gather that there is no purpose
to be served by your sharing his fate.”
“Free, I may be able to help him. A prisoner,
I should....” She stopped, hesitating.
“My Lord Brocton?” said I interrogatively.
For the second time her face burned, and I saw in
it shame and distress and fear. My lord was piling
up a second account with me, and for humbling this
proud beauty he should one day pay the price in full.
But it was time to act. I ran to the porch and
roared out, “Jane! Jane! Where are
you? Come here quick!”
Jane came running in from the kitchen. She stopped
dead with surprise when she saw my companion, and
could not even cackle on about the jack.
“Now, Jane, do exactly what I say. Take
this lady upstairs and dress her as nearly like yourself
as you can. It’s good you are much of a
height. Pack her own clothes carefully out of
sight. Off, quick!”
