“There’s the poorhouse for tramps, and the lock-up for rascals,” he added.  “Be off with you!”

“Pardon me, sir,” said I, as quietly as before, “I have eaten nothing for thirty hours or longer, and if you would but give me speech with the master of the house, I doubt not he would allow me milk and bread, for which I would willingly do a turn of work in the morning.”

“D’you hear me, sirrah!” cries the boy.  “You’re a poacher if the truth were known.  We want no lazy louts here, and if you’re not outside the gates instantly I vow I’ll set the dogs on to you.”

And with that he came up to me and gave me a shove with his shoulder.  He had courage, for he was smaller than I.  ’Twas the spirit that prompts a gentleman, however puny, to despise the churl, however big.

His words I had borne patiently enough, but I could endure no more.  Wrenching myself away, I dealt him a buffet that stretched him flat on the ground.

This scene had passed within a few paces of the gate, and I had been so preoccupied that I had not heard the clatter of an approaching horse, and in consequence was taken utterly aback when a loud voice behind me cried, “What’s this?  What’s this?” and immediately afterwards the lash of a whip fell smartly on my back, causing me to spring round in a heat of indignation.  A gentleman had just ridden in at the gate, and, taking in the situation at a glance, had begun the chastisement which he had much reason to suppose I deserved.

What with my hunger, the boy’s insults, and the sting of the lash, I was now roused to as high a pitch of fury as I had ever in my life reached.  I had taken a step towards the horse, to drag the rider from his saddle, and he had raised the whip once more to strike, when a voice from the direction of the house caused us both to pause.

“Don’t, uncle; oh, please don’t!”

Involuntarily I turned, and saw a young girl flying down the path, her long unloosed black hair streaming behind her.  She came to us with flushed cheeks, and breathless with running.

“It was all Roger’s fault,” she cried.  “I saw it, heard it all.  The poor man is starving and wanted to work for food, and Roger was rude to him.”

Her uncle looked at her, and at me, and at the boy, who had risen from the ground, wearing a sullen and crestfallen look.

“Is that the right of it, Roger?” asked the gentleman.

“He said so, sir,” he replied, “but he looks such a villainous tramp, and you know what lies they tell—­why, look here!” He stooped and picked something from the ground.  “He said he was hungry, and look at this!”

He held up my crown piece, which in the violence of my movements, I suppose, had sprung out of my tattered garment.  I felt my cheeks flush hotly, and was stricken dumb in the face of this mute evidence giving me the lie.  The girl gazed at me for a moment; then, her lip curling with disdain, she turned her back and walked up the path towards the house.