“At present!” said the other, interrupting him. “You are like the old Romans, who held that _hostis_ meant both a stranger and an enemy. I will therefore be no longer a stranger. My name is Ganlesse--by profession I am a Roman Catholic priest--I am travelling here in dread of my life--and I am very glad to have you for a companion.” “I thank you for the information with all my heart,” said Peveril; “and to avail myself of it to the uttermost, I must beg you to ride forward, or lag behind, or take a side-path, at your own pleasure; for as I am no Catholic, and travel upon business of high concernment, I am exposed both to risk and delay, and even to danger, by keeping such suspicious company. And so, Master Ganlesse, keep your own pace, and I will keep the contrary; for I beg leave to forbear your company.” As Peveril spoke thus, he pulled up his horse, and made a full stop. The stranger burst out a-laughing. “What!” he said, “you forbear my company for a trifle of danger? Saint Anthony! How the warm blood of the Cavaliers is chilled in the young men of the present day! This young gallant, now, has a father, I warrant, who has endured as many adventures for hunting priests, as a knight-errant for distressed damsels.” “This raillery avails nothing, sir,” said Peveril. “I must request you will keep your own way.” “My way is yours,” said the pertinacious Master Ganlesse, as he called himself; “and we will both travel the safer, that we journey in company. I have the receipt of fern-seed, man, and walk invisible. Besides, you would not have me quit you in this lane, where there is no turn to right or left?” Peveril moved on, desirous to avoid open violence--for which the indifferent tone of the traveller, indeed, afforded no apt pretext--yet highly disliking his company, and determined to take the first opportunity to rid himself of it. The stranger proceeded at the same pace with him, keeping cautiously on his bridle hand, as if to secure that advantage in case of a struggle. But his language did not intimate the least apprehension. “You do me wrong,” he said to Peveril, “and you equally wrong yourself. You are uncertain where to lodge to-night--trust to my guidance. Here is an ancient hall, within four miles, with an old knightly Pantaloon for its lord--an all-be-ruffed Dame Barbara for the lady gay--a Jesuit, in a butler’s habit, to say grace--an old tale of Edgehill and Worster fights to relish a cold venison pasty, and a flask of claret mantled with cobwebs--a bed for you in the priest’s hiding-hole--and, for aught I know, pretty Mistress Betty, the dairy-maid, to make it ready.” “This has no charms for me, sir,” said Peveril, who, in spite of himself, could not but be amused with the ready sketch which the stranger gave of many an old mansion in Cheshire and Derbyshire, where the owners retained the ancient faith of Rome.