“No call to glaze like a gert bull wi’ your eyes so round as pennies,” she said. “An’ what’s more, you needn’t take no comfort from what I’ve told ’e. I reckon her ban’t for no Dartymoor market. Wi’ her mort o’ money an’ dearth o’ years, her can very well wait awhile wi’out jumping at the first clodpole among ’e as offers.” At this moment a strange man came among them and the subject was dropped for that time, before the interesting spectacle of a face unfamiliar to all present. The new arrival carried himself as one superior to his company. He was booted and spurred, held in one hand a pair of holsters, in the other a riding-whip. He gave no general salute to those present, neither did he order refreshment, but casting one quick glance about him, addressed himself to Gammer Trout and asked to see the mistress of the inn. Nicholas Merle was a big, clean-shorn man, with bright eyes, quick movements, and the assertive manner of one accustomed to have his way. There was no contempt in his attitude to the folk assembled, but he took it for granted that he exceeded them in importance, even as his interests rose above their own; and not one among them questioned the assumption. “Acquaint Mistress Merle that I am come—her cousin Nicholas from Yorkshire.” Tibby curtseyed and went to do his bidding, while the new arrival out-stared each man present in turn, then went to the peat fire and kicked it. “Give ’e gude day,” said Elias Bassett, in a friendly tone. “I daresay now this here lonesome auld Moor do seem but a wisht, pixy-ridden place to a gen’leman like you be.” “It is very well, my good fellow—a little contracted, that is all. The wolds are more spacious, but a gentleman might make a living here if others would but let him. Does anybody with a fat purse ride this way?” Elias and his companions stared, and the lower jaw of Mr. French fell until he appeared imbecile. Yet the stranger’s cynical hint brought up his listeners a little more on to a level with him. Their virtue owed it to itself to stand as high as his confessed or pretended rascality. “That sort of talk leads to a hemp collar, mister,” murmured Bassett; but Merle shook his head. “Mere talk leads nowhere,” he answered. “It is the fashion of you clowns to take a jest in earnest. But have no fear. I am not come among you with any such purpose as the road. To-day I have ridden from Exeter and, since leaving Moretonhampstead, saw nought but carrion crows and a fox or two. This place tempts no man to dishonesty. I can see upon your faces that you scarce know the meaning of the word.” Gammer Tibby returned, and Merle, nodding in a friendly way to all present, followed her through the bar to the private chambers behind it. Then, hardly had the horseman clanked from sight, when Ostler Joe Mudge appeared with his mouth full of news.