But Dick, seeing some signs of relenting, sprang to his feet, and pointed to the pistols in the nearest holster. "Shoot me!" he said steadily, ceasing to cry and to tremble. "I did not lie to them! Shoot me here! Don't take me back! I'll stand still!" Dick heard the chink of gold coins as the major stood with his hands in his pockets. The major's face twitched. Somehow the game had lost its amusement. He took hold of Dick and swung him up before Newton. Then he mounted his own horse. "The money in your pocket?" said Newton insolently. The officer reined in so suddenly that his charger reared in the air. He plunged his hand in his pocket and dashed the gold pieces on the ground. Then he struck in the spurs and galloped off, followed by his man. Newton dismounted, gathered up the pieces, and rode off with Dick, laughing. "That's the fault of being a gentleman, my chuck," he said roughly. "However degraded you are you can never rely on yourself. A pinch too much dirt and--fah!--your gentleman's nose tilts. A bit of a whine from a weakling, like you, and--eh, dear me!--my gentleman's blood boils, and turns him soft again!" CHAPTER X THE INN-KEEPER'S BOY The Seven Thorns was a lonely place. The long dusty road ran past it to the hills, and the country was desolate and wild. The road sloped down to the east and up to the west. As far as you could see to the east swept the trees of the Forest of Arne, and in a clearing, out of sight save for the smoke-wreaths and the church weathercock, lay Arncastor, the county town. There was nothing to the west but the sunset, where the white road ran out of sight into the sky, as it seemed. Master Tomlinson and his wife Mistress Joan, and his cow and three pigs, a mongrel dog, some fowls, and "the boy" lived at the inn. It was not a place of good repute, for tradition said that travellers were robbed there. In quiet times Master Tomlinson had but little custom, but in these days the road was busy and the inn much frequented. Now a party of the King's horse would clatter up to the door, with waving plumes and jingling spurs, and rainbow coats and sashes. Anon, next week, maybe, a Puritan regiment would gallop up soberly, with grave, earnest faces under their steel head-pieces, and plain suits, and long swords clanking at their sides. Then would pass a party of travellers: a Royalist parson and his family, driven from the rectory-house, going they knew not whither. And to-morrow a Puritan divine, grave and pious, exhorting men to repentance, and denouncing the King and his gallants and the ladies of the Queen. Once or twice there was a skirmish between rival parties in the inn-yard, with oaths and cries and groans and great confusion. These scenes Master Tomlinson abhorred, for they meant that one or maybe both of the parties would ride off without paying the score.