Now, about the hour of ten the next morning, I was idling on the south terrace, feeding our doves and playing with the dogs, when my eye was caught by a strange fellow most uncouthly dressed that led a horse up the avenue. Nor did it take long gazing to see from the large maculation of its sides that the horse was Skewbald Meg; the man proving, on closer observation and his own rough introduction, to be a petticoated seaman of Bridport. But to our enquiries after him who had lately ridden the mare he would answer nothing. He knew, he said, naught but that one who was no longer this side the water had told him the horse was owned at Drayton, in Somerset, and he would get twenty shillings for the bringing it home; that he had done his best to con the craft from the poop, but found she would ever move _starn_ foremost when he went on deck, and so had taken her in tow; and he hoped the lady would, an the patchwork quilt of a beast were indeed hers, not forget that he had walked all the way but two miles, which two were indeed the sorest of the road; had forgot (on further question) what town he was from, had forgot how far it was, but thought he could find his road again; had forgot the gentleman's name that sent him, and even, he thought, his own. And Sir Michael laughed at the cunning of the fellow's folly, paid him well, and bade him go home and find his memory. So, having drunk his ale, he trudged off with a sea bow and a twinkle in his eye more knowing than his words, but paused to twist his face over his shoulder and his thumb significantly toward the mare, saying he thought her mane in sore need of a good combing; and so off, leaving me sick at heart for news, that, pulling through the knots of Meg's matted neck-hair, I did speedily encounter in form of a letter securely tied beneath the tangled mass. And, the string cut, seal broken, and paper unfolded, this is what we read within: "_To my very dear Friends and Saviors both, SIR MICHAEL DRAYTON and MISTRESS PHILIPPA, his most sweet Daughter_. "I write within thirty hours of leaving you, having already found a ship to set me beyond reach of harm. "Good Meg did carry me well, and is, I hope, little worse of the twenty mile she ran in her never-changing stride, with never a false step and scarce one sweat drop; and I do truly think she hath eyes of a cat. 'T is not her fault if her back be first cousin to a handsaw, nor mine that saddles grow not in the hedgerows hereabout.