“Tut, tut! You’re all mistaken, my man. I abominate merriment as much as I do ale. Which calls it to my mind I am uncommon dry and thirsty. Jump down, Hugh. We’ll have experience of a Puritan tavern.” “Ay, men must eat,” sighed Emry. “Though my calling may smack of the carnal taint, yet ’tis not all ungodly, since—” “Don’t trouble yourself for that,” Strangwayes replied. “Faith, I never thought to surprise you in so honest a calling.” With that he led the way into the inn, where he and Hugh dined together in an upper chamber. The food was none of the best, Hugh privately thought, but Strangwayes praised it mightily to the maid who served them, the same they had encountered in the courtyard. She was a stepdaughter of Emry, who had married her mother, the now deceased hostess of the “Golden Ram,” so she told Strangwayes, and added much more touching Emry, who seemed the same old Puritan malcontent of Wilterswick. Soon the talk turned from him to gayer matters, for the girl was fresh-faced and black-eyed, so Strangwayes gave more heed to her than to his meat and drink. Hugh, feeling more foolish and out of place than ever, choked down his food quickly, then left the room, and, as he closed the door, heard a suppressed squeak: “Don’t ’ee, sir. An thou kiss me again I’ll scream.” Hugh stamped downstairs and stood glowering out into the courtyard, where the mist was now dribbling down in a slow rain. He watched the grayish streaks it made across the black openings of the sheds opposite the inn porch, and athwart the gaping door of the stable at his right. A wretched chilly day it was, and—why need Dick Strangwayes play the fool because a wench had red cheeks? When he heard his friend’s step he did not even turn his head, and then Strangwayes came up alongside him, and clapping one arm about his shoulders said in a low tone, “Jealous of a tavern maid, or I’ll hang myself!” Then he walked off laughing and disappeared into the stable. But when Strangwayes came out again some time later the laughter had gone from his face, and in its stead was a troubled, angry look that made Hugh forget his petty vexation and run down from the porch to meet him. “What has happened, Dick?” he begged. “Why, nothing,” replied Strangwayes, and took hold of his arm, so they paced up and down the courtyard together, “and yet everything is amiss. The white horse has gone lame.” “Is that all?” “Enough. Unless you fancy walking ten miles through the mud and rain to the next village. I do not.” “You can ride my horse. That is, he’s yours, of course.” “Or you might carry me,” Strangwayes answered soberly. “No, Hugh, neither you nor I will walk that ten miles nor the half of it, dragging a hobbled horse behind us.” “Well, at worst,” Hugh tried to speak cheerfully, “we shall but lose a few hours.” “Ay, is that all? Tell me this, Hugh: why did a sound horse go lame in the mere course of dinner?”