Matters shaped otherwise, however, for it was still pitch-dark on an autumn morning when he heard the sound of a door opening and a heavy tread upon the court-yard stones. The man’s voice called to the dog, and by the rattle of a chain John Gore guessed that the beast was being fastened. The footsteps crossed the court and paused outside the barn, with the glow from a lantern sending fingers of light through the chinks in the door. “Halloo, gentlemen—halloo there!” He hammered at the door, the sound making such a thunder in the barn that Mr. Pepys woke up with a gurgle, as though he were being throttled, and sat up, striking out with his fists into the dark. “Soul of me, what is it? John! Where are you?” “Here, watching over you like a father.” “And I have been asleep! My conscience! Call me a fat fool, John, out loud!” “Time to start, gentlemen.” “Start!” said Mr. Pepys, rubbing his eyes, “why, it can’t be much after midnight!” “Five of the clock it is, sirs.” “Call us again at seven, Solomon; the hay is sweeter than I thought.” The man pulled the prop away, dragged the door open a foot or so, and pushed the lantern inside. But he did not show them his face. “I go to work in half an hour,” he said, stubbornly, “and my woman wants you away before I go.” “Dear soul alive, we shall not eat her, nor even salute her tenderly! And there is breakfast to be considered.” “You can get your breakfast on the road. Up with you, or, by Old Noll, I’ll let the mastiff off the chain!” The fellow’s bullying tone roused John Gore’s grimness, but he felt that nothing was to be gained by a squabble. Mr. Pepys dragged himself up from the hay, and helped himself to some of the bread and bacon that had been left over from the night. John Gore was already at work saddling the horses, not sorry to remember the warm parlor of The Half Moon Inn at Battle. The man had moved off, and they heard him opening the court-yard gate. It was still dark when they sallied from the barn, and found the woman waiting for them with a cloak over her head. John Gore loitered and looked about him, but could see nothing but low, dilapidated, thatched roofs, and a vague, shadowy mass looming up against the northern sky. The woman seemed to have no wish to let them linger, and the growling of the dog typified the temper of the humans who owned him. The man had disappeared, but what with the darkness and the raw cold of an autumn morning, Mr. Pepys had no desire to wish him good-bye. He remembered the glint of a gun-barrel as he climbed into the saddle. “You can at least tell us, my good woman, how to find the road to Battle Town?” “I never was at Battle in my life, sir.” “Oh, cheering Aurora, how helpful thou art! Can you give us just one point of the compass, ma’am?” “Ride east, sir; you must come somewhere.” “I agree with that statement, heartily,” quoth Mr. Samuel, with a philosophical grimace.