"I do. And that horse will want a whip--until he knows your voice; and that whip Peter Norcot has provided. 'Tis almost worthy of you--a pretty toy." "I don't want your whip," she said. Mr. Norcot cast about for something from _The Taming of the Shrew_; but he changed his mind. Meantime Grace spoke again. "I shall be sorry to give up riding my poor little 'Russet.' Still, he's not up to my weight now; and he's growing elderly and lazy, and I'm to hunt next season. Won't it be lovely?" "Our Dartmoor blades will hunt no more foxes; they'll hunt for smiles from you," said Peter gloomily. "You shall have some good long gallops with me if you will. I'm mastering the country well, and now with 'Cæsar'--that's my new horse--I shall be able to go twice as far as formerly." "I rejoice. You must take me upon your favourite rides." "One has a horrid fascination for me. 'Tis to the top of North Hisworthy Tor above Prince Town. From there you can look straight down into that great War Prison--the saddest sight for any woman's eyes." Mr. Malherb entered at this moment. "A tender fool," he said, "and her mother no better. Eight thousand French tigers behind those bars; and these women in their silly way would set 'em loose to-morrow." "They long for their dens and their cubs, poor fellows," said Grace. "They fought for their country--that's their only sin," murmured Annabel Malherb. "They fought against England--that's their sin," retorted her husband hotly. "The lying, slippery rascals! Dartmoor's too good for 'em. Honour! Three broke parole at Ashburton last week!" "Isn't it wonderful? They play games and hold concerts and have play-acting!" said Grace. "Their vile French levity," answered her father. "Instead of being on their knees asking God to forgive 'em, they dance and sing." Mr. Norcot shook his head, as though to imply he echoed Malherb's sentiments. Then he asked a question, but did not guess the storm it would awaken. "And what about the American prisoners?" "Curse 'em!" roared the farmer, like a sudden explosion of thunder. "Curse 'em living and dying, and, if I had my way, I'd hang the foul traitors--every man. Our own flesh and blood--a British Colony----" "I'm afraid 'tis idle to dream that any more. The tea business. Never was such a shattering storm bred in a teacup before," answered Norcot. "A bad day for England----" "Matricides, murderers, insolent democratical scoundrels!" cried the other. "My blood boils at the name. How is it that the Almighty has not sunk their stolen continent fathoms deep in the sea to cleanse it? Why are they allowed to live? Pirates--slave-driving, slave-hunting, slave-breeding pirates, and lynchers, and blackguards--self-constituted a Nation. _A Nation!_ They make you believe in Hell against your will."