Down the hill she carried me, picking the softest turf, and moving with an easeful swing that rather lull’d my hurt than jolted it. I was dozing, even, when a strange noise awoke me. ’Twas a high protracted note, that seem’d at first to swell up toward us, and then broke off in half a dozen or more sharp yells. Joan took no heed of them, but seeing my eyes unclose, and hearing me moan, stopped short. “Hurts thee, lad?” “No.” ’Twas not my pain but the sight of the sinking sun that wrung the exclamation from me—“I was thinking,” I muttered. “Don’t: ’tis bad for health. But bide thee still a-while, and shalt lie ’pon a soft bed.” By this time, we had come down to the road: and the yells were still going on, louder than ever. We cross’d the road, descended another slope, and came all at once on a low pile of buildings that a moment before had been hid. ’Twas but three hovels of mud, stuck together in the shape of a headless cross, the main arm pointing out toward the moor. Around the whole ran a battered wall, patched with furs; and from this dwelling the screams were issuing— “Joan!” the voice began, “Joan—Jan Tergagle’s a-clawin’ my legs—Gar-rout, thou hell cat—Blast thee, let me zog! Pull’n off Joan—Jo-an!” The voice died away into a wail; then broke out in a racket of curses. Joan stepped to the door and flung it wide. As my eyes grew used to the gloom inside, they saw this:— A rude kitchen—the furniture but two rickety chairs, now toss’d on their faces, an oak table, with legs sunk into the earth, a keg of strong waters, tilted over and draining upon the mud floor, a ladder leading up to a loft, and in two of the corners a few bundles of bracken strewn for bedding. To the left, as one entered, was an open hearth; but the glowing peat-turves were now pitch’d to right and left over the hearthstone and about the floor, where they rested, filling the den with smoke. Under one of the chairs a black cat spat and bristled: while in the middle of the room, barefooted in the embers, crouched a man. He was half naked, old and bent, with matted grey hair and beard hanging almost to his waist. His chest and legs were bleeding from a score of scratches; and he pointed at the cat, opening and shutting his mouth like a dog, and barking out curse upon curse. No way upset, Joan stepped across the kitchen, laid me on one of the bracken beds, and explain’d— “That’s feyther: he’s drunk.”