Mr. Tuke had ridden a mile along the last lap of his journey, when he suddenly drew himself together, gave a whistle, and set to communing audibly with his inner man.

 

“This will not do, Roberto,” he murmured. “Thou hast eaten of the dangerous fruit, and the sweet poison courses in thy veins¹.”

 

He shrugged² out a laugh.

 

“Why, what has my drugged headpiece been conscious of since I left the inn?—whereat I dwelt a pernicious while, by the way. The wind whistles ‘Betty Pollack’—the lark³ twitters ‘Betty Pollack’—she smiles over the hedgerows; she sits on every stile; the rose of the sun looks through the grey welkin like the fire of untouched maidenhood⁴ in her delicate cheeks. And I am a squire⁵ of acres—a man of substance; and a good man prospective⁷, I believe.”

 

He laughed again, flicked⁸ his horse to a canter, and broke into a fragment of the old-world song that seemed queerly inapt to his character—

 

Sweet sun, sweet air, and a pilgrim’s scrip;

 

Shoon to my feet and sword on hip⁹;

 

Flout¹⁰ or kiss on a ready lip,

 

And the green by-ways of the world-a!

 

His voice rang down the lonely swales and made their austerity human. For a profound silence reigned¹¹ on all the hills and in the valleys by way of his passing, and the wind had ceased to cry of its own desolation.

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