She would probably--if
not thrown and injured--have been left behind to feel herself lost on
the moors. She minded the less his somewhat rude ejaculation, "Ho!
Ho! South! South! Forgot how to back a horse on rough ground. Eh?
And what a poor soft-paced beast! Only fit to ride on my lady's
pilgrimage or in a State procession."
(He said Gang, but neither the Old English nor the northern dialect
could be understood by the writer or the reader, and must be taken
for granted.)
"They are all gone!" responded Grisell, rather frightened.
"Never guessed you were not among them," replied Ridley. "Why, my
lady would be among the foremost, in at the death belike, if she did
not cut the throat of the quarry."
Grisell could well believe it, but used to gentle nuns, she shuddered
a little as she asked what they were to do next.
"Turn back to the track, and go softly on till my lord comes up with
us," answered Ridley. "Or you might be fain to rest under a rock for
a while."
The rest was far from unwelcome, and Grisell sat down on a mossy
stone while Ridley gathered bracken for her shelter, and presently
even brought her a branch or two of whortle-berries. She felt that
she had a friend, and was pleased when he began to talk of how he
remembered her long ago.
"Ah! I mind you, a little fat ball of a thing, when you were fetched
home from Herring Dick's house, how you used to run after the dogs
like a kitten after her tail, and used to crave to be put up on old
Black Durham's back.
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