Just then Saxon, riding in, called to Hugh to groom his well-bespattered horse, so the boy, eager though he was to hear more, must walk away with the beast to the open floor of the stable, where he fell to work. It darkened and lanterns were lit; one was hung from a stanchion, and just beneath Hugh saw a stranger standing, a tall, thickset man of middle age with a heavy beard, who seemed to have an eye for all the business of the stable, and at whose word men moved to obey, even more readily than they did for Hardwyn. He must be John Ridydale, Hugh decided, so he got Saxon’s horse betwixt them, and, working briskly, hoped he might not be noticed. But presently Ridydale stopped giving orders, and Hugh, getting uneasy at his silence and looking sidewise at the man, found he was gazing at him with his brows drawn together. Hugh feigned to be very busy with the horse, but the currycomb moved unsteadily in his hand, while he waited, and wondered if Ridydale would kick him out of the stable at once or let him stay long enough to get his supper. Then he heard a heavy step and, looking up and finding the corporal beside him, drew back a pace warily; but the other griped him by the shoulder with a sharp, “What’s your name, lad?” “Hugh.” “What else?” “Nothing else, sir.” Hugh had his arm half raised to shield his head, but Ridydale did not strike at him, only said with something strangely like kindliness, “Come outside here.” There were horses at the trough by the door, Hugh noted, and through the stable yard a twilight mist, in which the cottage lights looked blurry, was shutting down. They had drawn away from any stray troopers, and now, right by the hedge, Ridydale, with his grasp still on Hugh’s shoulder, halted him and asked, “The rest of the name mightn’t be Gwyeth, perhaps, master?” CHAPTER VIII THE INTERPOSITION OF JOHN RIDYDALE It shamed Hugh afterward to remember how overwhelmingly, at that first dim prospect of relief, the realization of his friendlessness and degradation came over him, till not even sufficient spirit was left in him to make his usual evasions. “Yes, I am Hugh Gwyeth,” he answered simply; “I am the colonel’s son.” Then he felt the sharp sting of twigs across his face, as he pressed his head upon his folded arms against the yielding hedge, and his breath came stranglingly for a great lump that had gathered in his throat and was near choking him. Ridydale was patting him on the shoulder, he knew, and he heard him say: “Come, come, master, don’t go play the woman now. ’Tis all well, I tell you.” At that Hugh lifted his head from his arms. “Did my father send you to seek me?” he asked, eagerly, as the griping feeling in his throat would let him. Ridydale hesitated a moment. “I’ll wager he’ll be glad enough that I have found you, sir,” he said at length. “For now, get you over to the cottage where the light shows yonder and bide till I come.”