“Nothing, sir,” Hugh replied, as he threw off his buff coat. “I’ll not need your good offices, for—In short, sir, I’m wearied of hiding, and I want back my own name again. So ’tis in my mind to ride for Oxford to-morrow.” CHAPTER XVII THE STRANGER BY THE WAY “You’ve a gray day for a start and a gallows at the end,” Allestree spoke encouragingly, as he lounged in the doorway of the manor house. “’Twill be profitable to you, Master Gwyeth, to turn your thoughts as you go to composing your last good-night,” Mahone paused in lighting his pipe to add cheerfully. Hugh put his attention to drawing on his gauntlets and made no reply; in the last twelve hours there had been threats and expostulations and jeers enough to teach him that his only course was to be silent and keep to his determination. “I’ll lay you five shillings, George, he loses courage and sneaks back in time for dinner,” Mahone resumed. The blood shot up to Hugh’s face; he knew that was what Mahone wanted, and he was the angrier that he had gratified him. He turned sharp away and fumbled at Bayard’s headstall till he felt surer of his self-control, then asked stiffly: “Can you tell me if the captain is in the west parlor? I must take my leave of him.” “I don’t begrudge you the task,” Allestree hinted. “The captain lost his temper at Northrope, because the scurvy little tavern was so ill supplied, and he has not found it again yet. So look to yourself, Hugh.” It did not need Allestree’s warning to bring the heart down into Hugh’s boots; the mere inhospitality of the closely shut door of the west parlor and the grim tone in which Butler bade him come in were enough to daunt him. The captain had been writing ponderously at the table in the centre of the room, but at Hugh’s coming he flung down his pen, and, after surveying him scowlingly, burst out: “You’re still set in your folly, then? Well, for Dick Strangwayes’ sake I’d fain have saved you, in spite of your cursed sullen ways.” “I have not meant to be discourteous to you, Captain Butler,” Hugh protested; “I thank you for sheltering me and saving me that first time, I do thank you heartily. But now I think it better—” “To seek other company,” Butler retorted. “If you were a bit older, I’d be angry with you, sir; and if you were a small bit younger, by the Lord, I’d cuff some wit into you; as ’tis—Well, I’ll shake hands, if you wish. On my soul, ’tis pity so decent a lad should not have the sense to keep his head on his shoulders.” Thereupon he turned his back, and, with great show of being occupied, fell to his writing, so Hugh, feeling miserably rebuked, had no course but to go quietly from the room.