I pricked on, having no time to spare for either prayer
or provender, since every moment was precious, though a tankard of double
October, mulled with spice and laced with brandy, would have been precious
too, for the matter of that.
At the tail of the village, where the curve of the road runs into the
straight again to climb the long hill, I came for a moment into touch with
my affair. A horseman was in sight, rattling down the slope, and I saw
that he was an officer, a keen-featured, middle-aged man, with the set
face of one who rides on urgent business. Yet he checked his horse when
near me, and cried curtly, "What news from Stafford?"
A word with him might be worth while, so I too pulled up and answered
very politely, "It's market-day."
"Damn the market! What news of the troops, sir? Is my Lord Brocton still
there?"
"I believe he is."
"Then damn my Lord Brocton! Did you chance to see him?"
"I had that honour late last night."
"Anything the matter with him?"
"He'd had enough," said I simply.
"That's what comes of shoving sprigs of your bottle-sucking nobility into
the service.
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