“I could swear, master,” says he, “that this is of old Sir Nicholas Coope’s breeding--we have its marrow in yonder stable at this moment--’tis a mare that Master Dacre of Foxclough rides--I never saw two beasts more alike.” “Aye?” says I. “Why, truly, thou hast a rare eye, lad--but what is Master Dacre’s mare doing in your stable?” “Master Dacre’s within,” says he, nodding his head towards the inn. “Oh!” says I, and stands staring at the door, somewhat nonplussed. I had not expected to meet any of my kinsfolk just then and scarce relished the notion. “Come,” says I to myself, “what signifies Anthony Dacre?--we’re as near strangers as may be,” and I once more bade the man see to my horse, and walked into the house. They seemed somewhat quiet inside--there were but two or three men drinking in the kitchen, and the landlord leaned idly against the corner of the settle, his hands tucked under the wide apron that covered his capacious paunch. At sight of me he started into activity. My eyes cast about them in search of Anthony--the landlord noted it, and thought I looked for a place worthy of my condition. “If your honour will but step into the parlour,” says he, and flings the door open before me. So I slips in, and there sat Anthony Dacre with a jug of ripe ale before him and some trifle of food such as a wayside inn affords to chance comers. He gave me a glance as I stepped within the room, and I saw that he did not recognise me, which was naught to be surprised at for we had not met those seven years. For a moment, then, I stood staring at him, half doubtful whether to make myself known, or to go on my way without recognising him. Faith! I have since wondered many’s the time indeed, whether much of what followed might not have been prevented if I had turned on my heel and left Anthony to refresh himself in peace.