"I will be ready in a few minutes."
"Shall I saddle Dodder, mistress, or will you ride pillion behind the
captain?" said a gruff voice at the door.
"Ah, Samson, my good, true lad," cried Mistress Forrester, "I am glad to
hear your voice again."
She ran forward, and held out her hand.
"And it's like the sweet music of the birds to hear yours, mistress,"
said the rough fellow, kissing the extended hand.
"Quick, my boy!" whispered Mistress Forrester. "Give your men
refreshment. Saddle the pony, Samson. I will soon be down."
She ran to the staircase, and Samson tramped off to the old stable,
thrust his hand in the thatch over the door, where, to use his
expression, "the key always laid," and a neigh of recognition greeted
him as soon as he spoke.
In five minutes he was leading the pony round to the gate, where he was
in time to find a huge black jack of cider being passed round with horns
to the men, one of the maids having hastily dressed and come down.
Directly after, in her dark riding-habit and hat, Mistress Forrester was
at the door, was helped into the saddle by her son, and the little
cavalcade was on its way back through the dark lanes, and over the
stretch of moor.