“Didn’t you see and hear enough, young sir, in Mag’s house?”

“Smugglers—ay, and worse—is that why?”

“Ay, ay; and there’s odd tales of old Edward, how his money come—” but he broke of—“I’m not forgettin’ you’re the old man’s grandson.”

“Forget that I am, and tell me.”

“There’s odd tales. Maybe he made his p. 114fortune in the East, like any India merchant. He came as honest by it as many another, I’ve no doubt.”

p. 114

“You mean dishonestly. What was my grandfather?”

He answered, laughing, “A gentleman of fortune, folk say”—and galloped on through the trees and out upon the open moorlands.

Seated before him in saddle, with nigh as much discomfort to me as when he had borne me on to Mag’s farm in the night, I fell to pondering over the mystery of old Edward Craike. How had he come by his money? Mr. Bradbury would never tell me, fencing me delicately; Roger Galt would not, but “gentleman of fortune”—it might mean buccaneer, freebooter, pirate, as Henry Morgan or many another. Ever my mother’s words recurred to me, “the doomed house”—“ill-gotten wealth”—the thought of her hate of Charles and terror of Rogues’ Haven. And the name and the company old Edward kept? Howbeit, I should know soon. When once I was safe with Mr. Bradbury, and the justice Sir Gavin Masters, and the thief-catchers from London. And how would my uncle take all this, and what should be his punishment, after his plot against me-defeated by this gentleman of the road whom he had vowed to hang, if he p. 115should play him false, as Roger Galt had played him!

p. 115

But my thoughts were yet all awhirl, even as my body was jolted and jarred before Roger Galt on his great black horse, as now putting his mount to its full speed he galloped over the moors. He descended at last on to a rough and broken road, striking back, as nearly as I might guess, for the highway on which Mr. Bradbury and I had been intercepted. And, suddenly, rounding a bend in the road, we came face to face with four riders, at the sight of whom Roger pulled up abruptly—to snatch a pistol from his holster, loosing his hold upon me, and muttering, “Jump down! Quick! I’ll not stay!”

They came onward riding swiftly, as I dropped stiffly to my feet. Roger Galt, 

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