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So I crept back, got a pistol, and stood to the left of the window. I waited till his body darkened the room and then took a furtive look at him. It was no village lover climbing up at peep of dawn to greet his lass. It was one of Brocton's dragoons, one of the five who had been at the Hanyards. In a twink I shot him. Without a word, he slithered down the tiles, leaving a mush of blood-red snow.
The best Wheatman of the Hanyards that ever lived would have burned at the stake rather than wear a wig. I've done most of the other things he would have burned for, but I'll stick by him to this extent that I'll be damned if I'll wear a wig."
To-day we are all together again for a long stay at the Hanyards. The Archdeacon of Lichfield, once our beloved vicar, is with us, simple, fatherly, and learned as of old. I can see his white head when I lift mine up from my writing.
Therefore, when Mistress Waynflete looked up to me from the bleak uplands with serious, questioning eyes, I said, as calmly as if we were pacing the garden at the Hanyards, with Kate and Jane active in the kitchen behind us, "Ham and eggs for breakfast!" "I don't see any," she said, in answering mood, scanning the fields around us. "Not that that matters.
There were other signs of crookedness, slight but not without weight. I could understand his joy on finding me at Marry-me-quick's. It meant that I was a rebel, and as a loyal man, who had gone to expenses to prove his loyalty, he might easily get the Hanyards as a reward, and thus round off the family property in our neighbourhood.
To our left, bits of silver ribbon marked the twistings of the river, and that darker line in the distant darkness was the hills of my home and boyhood. At their feet was the Hanyards, and Kate and mother. There was a little mist in my eyes, and the eyes I turned and looked into were brimming with tears. "And now, Mistress Waynflete," said I, "let us on to our inn."
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