"Five times the value of mine, it seems," said Philip with a sigh. "But," he added, with a sudden return to feverish anxiety, "if he was caught last night, with my letter in his hands..." "Caught!!! Beau Brocade caught!" laughed John Stich, "nay, all the soldiers of the Duke of Cumberland’s army couldn’t do that, my lord! Besides, I know he wasn’t caught. I saw him on his chestnut horse just before the Corporal came. I heard him laughing, at the red coats, maybe. Nay! my lord, I beg you have no fear, your letter is in her ladyship’s hand now, I’ll lay my life on that." "I had to trust someone, my lord," he said after awhile, as Lord Stretton once more relapsed into gloomy silence. "I could do nothing for your lordship single-handed, and you wanted that letter to reach her ladyship. I scarce knew what to do. But I did know I could trust Beau Brocade, and your secret is as safe with him as it is with me." Philip sighed wearily. "Ah, well! I’ll believe it all, friend John. I’ll trust you and your friend, and be grateful to you both: have no fear of that! Who am I but a wretched creature, whom any rascal may shoot by Act of Parliament." But John Stich had come to the end of his power of argument. Never a man of many words, he had only become voluble when speaking of his friend. Philip tried to look cheerful and convinced, but he was chafing under this enforced inactivity and the dark, close atmosphere of the forge. He had spent two days under the smith’s roof and time seemed to creep with lead-weighted wings: yet every sound, every strange footstep, made his nerves quiver with morbid apprehension, and even now at sound of a tremulous voice from the road, shrank, moody and impatient, into the darkest corner of the hut. CHAPTER IV JOCK MIGGS, THE SHEPHERD "Be you at home, Master Stich?" A curious, wizened little figure stood in the doorway peering cautiously into the forge. In a moment John Stich was on the alert. "Sh!" he whispered quickly, "have no fear, my lord, ’tis only some fool from the village." "Did ye say ye baint at home, Master Stich?" queried the same tremulous voice again. "I didn’t quite hear ye." "Yes, yes, I’m here all right, Jock Miggs," said the smith, heartily. "Come in!" Jock Miggs came in, making as little noise, and taking up as little room as possible. Dressed in a well-worn smock and shabby corduroy breeches, he had a curious shrunken, timid air about his whole personality, as he removed his soft felt hat and began scratching his scanty tow-coloured locks: he was a youngish man too, probably not much more than thirty, yet his brown face was a mass of ruts and wrinkles like a furrowed path on Brassing Moor. "Morning, Mr Stich ... morning," he said with a certain air of vagueness and apology, as with obvious admiration he stopped to watch the broad back of the smith and his strong arms wielding the heavy hammer.