Hugh had cause enough to note and remember the conversation a few days later. Of a dull gray afternoon he had taken himself to his chamber, dutifully to practise thrusts with his sword at a round mark on the wainscot, an exercise which proved tedious, so he was glad enough when a noise of horses stamping and men calling in the yard below gave him an excuse for running to the window. At the front of the cottage nothing was to be seen, so, flinging on his coat, he ran downstairs into the kitchen, whence came the sound of high talk. Bursting into the room, he found Nancy crouched by the fireplace, and Ralph skulking by her, while at the door stood Widow Flemyng, arms akimbo, in hot discourse with a cross-eyed trooper, who wore the king’s colors. “I tell you, it shall not be put up!” the man was blustering. “We’d scarce set foot in your stable when your rascal would be breaking a stave across Garrett’s head.” “And I tell you, you shall put up with it!” retorted the widow. “Do you think to come plundering decent loyal bodies, you minching thieves? Not a step do you stir into this house. Reach me hither the kettle, you white-livered Ralph.” Hugh prudently got the kettle into his own hands, then presented himself at the door with the query, “What’s amiss?” “Here are three rogues from Woodstead who seek to plunder the very horses from my plough,” replied the widow, clapping hands on the kettle. “Now come in if you dare, the pack of you!” But Hugh stayed her arm, while he looked out and got the situation. In the open space between the rear door and the stable three horses drooped their heads, and by them lingered two dragoons, one heavy and surly, the other a thin-faced fellow, who, looking sharply at Hugh, nudged his comrade. It seemed just an ordinary small foraging band, who were going beyond their authority, so Hugh stepped out and confronted the cross-eyed man with a stern, “What’s your warrant for this?” “King’s service, sir,” the other replied, gazing at him a little doubtfully. “’Tis service that will profit you little if it come to your captain’s ears,” Hugh answered. “There are none here but loyal people and friends to the king. Best take advice and go back empty-handed. ’Twill be for your good in the end.” Just there a hand was clapped heavily upon his collar; instinctively Hugh was ducking to wrest himself clear, when the cross-eyed man, too, caught him by the throat of his jacket, and, realizing the uselessness of a struggle, the boy held himself quiet. “We’ll go back to Woodstead right enough, sir,” spoke the thin-faced trooper, who had first seized him. “But you’ll go with us, Master Gwyeth.” “My name is Edmund Burley,” Hugh replied stoutly, though the heart seemed all at once to have gone out of his body.