annoyance, keeping at Betty’s rein as she went toward the inn.

[62]

“It is ill judged to run a horse so close to one standing as mine was,” she said, still too angry to let the matter pass.

“It is, and I crave your pardon,” the other rejoined cheerfully; “another time I will bring my horse to a walk, Mistress Carew.”

Betty looked up amazed at hearing her own name, and encountered the stranger’s wonderful eyes with a gleam of amusement in them.

Bedingfield, who had mounted in the interval, now rode up, and the little adventure had to be explained to him. He, seeing only ready courage and dexterity in the conduct of the new-comer, was cordial in his thanks, and even permitted this strange person to ride back with the party toward Kimbolton. This seemed to be the opportunity that the little man desired, and he was soon engaged in earnest conversation with Sir Edmund. So entertaining did he make himself that Bedingfield, to Betty’s surprise, invited him to come in to rest when they reached the castle. Usually, all visitors underwent a severe scrutiny on account of the presence of the queen, but this stranger seemed[63] to have overcome the castellan’s scruples and the piebald horse was led to the stables, while the rider, smaller than ever now he was dismounted, followed Sir Edmund into the hall. Betty’s mind still rankling with the belief that her horse had been cut with the whip of the piebald’s master, and her curiosity piqued by the little man’s appearance, she asked the woman with her if she had ever seen him before. They were going up the stairs from the hall, Sir Edmund and his guest standing by the table below, and at the question the woman, a servant at Kimbolton, drew nearer and plucked her dress with nervous fingers.

[63]

“Hist, mistress!” she exclaimed in a low tone, “his ears are long. I have seen him but once before, but I know him full well; it is the famous wizard.”

“A wizard! that little bandy-legged man a wizard?” Betty cried, amazed.

“Hush!” said the woman, her dull face full of fear, “he reads your thoughts, he sees visions. ’Tis said that he did see, in a dream, Richard Rouse put the poison in my lord of Rochester’s bran meal at Lambeth Marsh, and that he had warned Richard, seven years before, that he would be boiled alive at Smithfield, as he was. I would not offend that little gentleman[64] in the 

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