“Why will ye hurry a body so—I be all breathless!” she protested at last. “I would haste to feed you, sweet Rose; ’twill render you less thorny, mayhap—and a little better company.” At this she stopped to frown and clench her fists, whereupon he promptly seized the nearest and patted it kindly. “A pretty hand, Rose,” said he, “a slim, white, soft, shapely little hand, and yet useful for all its idle looks.” “I hate you!” she exclaimed bitterly. “God bless you, child, I believe you do!” he answered. “But the birds sing, the sun shines, and I shall enjoy my breakfast none the less, which, if I remember this road aright, is none so far to seek!” Sure enough, rounding a bend, they presently espied a large posting-inn astir with bustle and excitement; horses stamped, chains rattled, ostlers ran to and fro, voices shouted; from all of which it was to be surmised that important company had lately arrived or was about to depart. Threading his way through all this confusion, Sir John beckoned to a large and somewhat pompous person. “Landlord,” quoth he, “three-quarters of an hour hence you will have a coach and post-horses at the door. Meanwhile—breakfast!” Sir John was his usual gentle, imperious self—but his chin was unshaven, his boots and clothes dusty; wherefore mine host’s bow was perfunctory and his manner somewhat off-hand when he “regretted he was unable to oblige Monsieur, as the only fresh team of horses was already commanded for a great English milord—it was distressing, mais que voulez-vous! As for breakfast, it was to be had within—Monsieur must pray excuse him, he was busy!” Sir John, completely forgetful of clothes and chin, was staring amazed and a little shocked by the landlord’s extraordinary lack of respectful and instant obedience, when his companion twitched him by embroidered cuff and, turning, he wondered to surprise a look on her face that might have been exultation, and there was suppressed excitement in her voice and gesture as she pointed to a coat-of-arms emblazoned upon the panels of an elegant travelling-chariot that stood near by. “Look yonder!” said she. “Oh, ’tis small use you expecting horses if this English lord wants ’em. Ye see, I know who he is—look there!” “A vulgar display of paint!” nodded Sir John, glancing at the coat-of-arms. “Pray what of it?” “That coach belongs to my Lord Sayle!” “And pray, what then?” “When he wants anything he generally gets it,” she answered. “And why is he so cursed, child?” “Because nobody dare gainsay him!” Now hearing the taunt in her voice, reading it in her look, Sir John’s blue eyes grew suddenly very keen and bright, then he laughed a little bitterly. “You think ’tis time one dared the fellow, perhaps. Ah, Rose, had we Sir John Dering with us, were my master here——” “’Twould be a new experience for him to meet—a dangerous man!” she retorted.