But here merry voice and laughter ceased and a buxom woman thrust
smiling face from the window, and face (like her voice) was
kindly when she addressed me:

"What would ye, young master?"

"A little food, mistress," says I, touching my weather-worn hat
and pulling it lower over my bruised and swollen features.

"Why come in, master, come in--there be none here but my Roger
and Godby the peddler, as knoweth everyone."

So I entered forthwith a small, snug chamber, and seating myself
in the darkest corner, acknowledged the salutations of the two
men while the good-looking woman, bustling to and fro, soon set
before me a fine joint of roast beef with bread and ale, upon
which I incontinent fell to.

The two men sat cheek by jowl at the farther end of the table,
one a red-faced, lusty fellow, the other, a small, bony man who
laughed and ate and ate and laughed and yet contrived to talk all
the while, that it was a wonder to behold.

"Was you over to Lamberhurst way, master?" says he to me, all at
once.

"Aye!" I nodded, busy with the beef.

"Why then, happen ye saw summat o' the sport they had wi' the big
gipsy i' the pillory--him as 'saulted my Lady Brandon and nigh
did for her ladyship's coz?"

"Aye," says I again, bending over my platter.

"'Tis ill sport to bait a poor soul as be helpless, I think--nay
I know, for I've stood there myself ere now, though I won't say
as I didn't clod this fellow once or twice to-day myself--I were
a rare clodder in my time, aha!  Did you clod this big rogue,
master?"

"No!"

"And wherefore not?"

"Because," says I, cutting myself more beef, "I happened to be
that same rogue."  Here Roger the landlord stared, his buxom wife
shrank away, and even the talkative peddler grew silent awhile,
viewing me with his shrewd, merry eyes.

"Aha!" says he at last, "'Twas you, was it?"

"It was!"

"And why must ye 'sault a noble lady?"

"I never did!"

"Gregory swears to it."

"Gregory's a liar!"

"Which is true enough--so he be!" nodded the landlord.

"And a cruel-hard man!" added his wife.  "But Lord, young master,
they do ha' used ye ill--your poor face, all bruised and swole it
be!"

"Which it be!" nodded Roger.  "Likewise cut!  Which be ill for
'ee though--like Godby here--I won't say but what I moughtn't ha'
took a heave at ye, had I been there, it being nat'ral-like to
heave things at such times, d'ye see?"

"Very natural!" says I.

"And then why," questioned the little peddler, "why break open
the wicket-gate?"

"To get in!"

"Aha!" quoth Godby the peddler, winking roguish eye, "On the
prigging lay perchance, cull, or peradventure the mill-ken? 
Speak plain, pal, all's bowmon!"

"I'm no flash cull," says I, "neither buzz, file, mill-ken nor
scamperer."

"Mum, pal, mum!  I'm no more flash than you be, though I've no
love for the harmon-becks as Roger here will tell 'ee.  A peddler
be I and well liked--wish I may swing else!  Aye, well beloved is
kind Godby, specially by wenches and childer--aha, many's the
yard o' riband and lace, the garters, pins, ballads, gingerbread
men, pigs and elephants, very fair gilt, as they've had o' kind
Godby, and all for love!  And yet, plague and perish it--here's
me warned off my pitch, here's me wi' the damned catchpolls on my
heels, and all along o' this same Gregory Bragg--rot him!"

"As to all that, I know not," says I, "but this I'll swear to,
you are a man, Godby the peddler, and one with a bold and kindly
heart inside you."

"How so?" he questioned, his bright eyes all of a twinkle.  "How
so, my bully boy?"

"That pannikin of water."

"Which you didn't get, my cock's-body lad!"

"Which you were man enough to bring me."

"Which Tom Button did ye out of!"

"Which you knocked him down for!"

"Which is Gospel-true, Roger and Cicely, 'twas a neat throw.  Tom
bumped heavy--aye, uncommon flat were Tom, let me eat worms
else!"

"For all of the which," says I, cutting more beef, "I ask you now
to drink a stoup of ale with me."

"Wi' all my heart!" cries the peddler.

"Then," says I, laying my money on the table, "let us all drink
in fellowship, for ale, like fellowship, is a goodly thing and
good things be rare in this world!"

"And that's true, o' conscience!" smiled the buxom Cicely.

"And ye'll find no better brew than our own!" quoth Roger.

"And that I'll swear to!" laughed the peddler.  "Cram me wi'
spiders else!"

So the good ale was brought and Godby, lifting his tankard,
smiled and nodded over the creamy foam:

"Here's a griping colic to every catchpoll, harmon-beck and the
like vermin 'twixt this and London town!" says he, and lifted the
ale to his lips; but suddenly he sat it down untasted and rose: 
"Friends, I'm took!" quoth he.  "See yonder!"  As he spake the
narrow doorway was darkened and two rough fellows entered, and
each bore a formidable bludgeon.

"Aye," says one, a big, surly-voiced fellow, "here be us,
peddler, and there be you, so best come easy--an' no tricks,
mind!"

"Then easy does it, lads!" says Godby, no whit abashed.  "No lamb
could come milder than Godby, aye lambs, doves and babes is
roaring lions compared wi' Godby--so easy does it.  What is't
this time, codgers?"

"Fower hours i' the pillory, three i' the stocks, and a month in
Maidstone jail and that's what!"

"And enough too!" growled Roger the landlord, clenching hairy
fist and glancing furtively towards a rusty sword suspended above
the hearth.

"Let be, Roger--I'm a lamb!" sighed the peddler.  "And I wouldn't
ha' you in trouble by me--besides this room o' yourn, though
snug, ain't fit for struggling nor striving!  So, friends--good-
bye!"  Then he turned away between his two captors, but as he did
so, his bright eyes for one moment met mine and in his look I
read appeal.

Now scarce were they gone when I got me to my feet, whereat the
landlord, Roger, did the like:

"What's to do?" he questioned, glancing yearningly from me to the
rusty sword.

"Why now," says I, counting out my reckoning, "bide you here--for
your good wife's sake."

"Aye, do now, Roger!" she pleaded.  "'Twould be ruination to us!"

"Moreover," says I, reaching for my cudgel, "they are but two, so
bide you here."  Then I stepped forth of the tavern and very soon
came up with the two fellows, their prisoner walking betwixt them
meekly enough.  But, as I approached, they halted all three.

"And what be you after?" demanded the surly fellow.

"You!"

"And what d'ye want of us--hey?"

"Your prisoner!"

"Ha!  And what for him?"

"I've a mind to him!"

"O!  Ye have, eh?"

"I have.  Do I get him?"

"Be curst for a black, ugly rogue."

"That's no answer!"

"'Tis all you'll get o' we, save 'ard knocks!" says the man,
spitting in his hand and taking firm grip of his bludgeon.

"Why then I must take him!" says I.

"Try and be damned!" roared the fellow.  "Ha--look alive, Jem!" 
And whirling up his staff, he made at me amain; but I sprang
aside and, as his rush carried him past, my answering stroke
caught him fairly 'twixt wrist and elbow and his cudgel spun
harmlessly into the hedge; breathing curses he sought to close
with me, but I, keeping my distance, smote him (very blithely)
how and where I would until he (his arm useless), misliking my
bludgeon-play and reading no mercy in my look, very wisely betook
him to his heels.  Hereupon I turned to find the little peddler
sitting astride his man's neck and his fist against the fellow's
nose:

"Smell it, Job!" he was saying.  "Smell it, lad, 'tis the fist of
a man as would be a-groping for your liver if it weren't for the
respect I do bear your old mother--skin me else!  So thank your
old mother, lad, first as you've got a liver and second for a-
saving o' that same liver.  And now, get up, Job--begone, Job,
arter your pal, and tell folk as kind Godby, though sore tempted,
never so much as set finger on your liver, and all along o' your
good old mother--away wi' ye!"  So the fellow got him to his legs
(mighty rueful) and sped away after his comrade.

"Pal," says the little peddler, reaching out and grasping my
hand, "here's full quittance for that pannikin o' water as you
never got!  And now--what's the word?"

"Now," says I, "let us go back and drink the good ale!"

"Pal," quoth the peddler, with a flash of white teeth, "wi' all
my heart!"

Thus we presently returned to the little tavern and found there
Roger the landlord, the rusty sword in one brawny fist, his wife
holding fast to the other.  At sight of us he dropped the weapon
and roared joyously, and Cicely, running to us, clasped our hands
in hearty welcome.  So we sat down all four, and while we quaffed
the ale Godby described our late encounter with great exactness.

"Pal," says he thereafter, reaching across the table to grip my
hand again, "what might your name be?"

"Martin."

"Why then, Martin, have ye any friends or kin?"

"None!"

"No more have I, and look now, this Kent country is no fit place
for you or me arter to-day!  So what I says is, lets you and me
pad it, pal--the road, lad--the good high-road, aha!  How say ye,
Martin?"

"No!"

"Why no, pal?"

"Because, after to-night, if I chance to be neither dead nor in
prison, I'm for shipboard."

"'Tis an ill life, pal!"

"Why, life is an ill thing!" says I.

"Nay, look'ee, Martin, life may be worth whiles now and then--
aye, lad, there be times, good times."

"What times?"

"Well, Martin, to lie snug 'neath hedge o' star-time, when your
fire's low an' the stars peep down through leaves at a man--wink,
they go, and wink, wink, till, watching 'em, a man forgets his
troubles awhile and knows something o' content.  Aha, many's the
time o' star-time they have winked me and my troubles asleep. 
Then there's wakings o' bird-time, wi' the sun up, dew a-sparkle
and life calling within ye and without, and the birds--O the
birds, Martin--a-filling the world wi' brave songs o' hope new-
born like the day!  Ah, many's the morn the birds ha' waked me
and I as merry as any grig--Lord love their beaks and wings! 
There's hay-time o' the evening full o' soft, sweet smells--aye,
sweet as lad's first kiss; there's wheat-time at noon wi' the
ears a-rustle and the whitt-whitt o' scythe and whetstone;
there's night, Martin, and the long, black road dipping and a-
winding, but wi' the beam o' light beyond, lad--the good light as
tells o' journey done, of companionship and welcomes and belike--
eyes o' love, with--"

"Lusty ale!" quoth Roger, setting three new-filled pipkins before
us.  "And none better nor ourn--eh, wife?"

"That I do swear to, Roger!" laughed the peddler, "Choke me else! 
But now, as to the sea, Martin pal--'tis a dog's life!"

"You know the sea, then?"

"Like my hand, Martin, and all along o' my father's godliness.  A
fine, big man he was and devout as he was lusty.  Having begot me
his next duty was to name me, and O pal, name me he did!  A name
as no raskell lad might live up to, a name as brought me into
such troublous faction ashore that he packed me off to sea.  And
if you ax me what name 'twas, I'll answer ye bold and true--'God-
be-here Jenkins,' at your service, though Godby for short and
'twixt friends."

Now the more I saw of this little peddler the better I liked him,
so that the hour was late when, having supped excellently well, I
rose to take my leave.

"If you must be away, young master," said the buxom Cicely,
"don't 'ee forget there be ever a welcome for 'ee at the Hop-
pole--eh, Roger?"

"There is so!" nodded the landlord.  "Likewise a pipkin of ale
and a bite and all gratus to a pal!"

"And look 'ee, Martin my cove," quoth the peddler, grasping my
hand, "there be ever and always the good high-road leading on and
away to better things, so happen ye should change your mind, seek
me here 'twixt this and dawn, if to-morrow ye shall hear o' Godby
at the Fox at Spelmonden.  So luck go wi' ye, my bien cull."

"And you," says I, "should you be minded to sail with me, go to
the Peck-o'-Malt at Bedgbury Cross--the word is 'The Faithful
Friend,' and ask for Adam Penfeather."

So I presently stepped forth of the little tavern where I had
found such kindliness and, turning from the narrow lane, struck
off across the fields.

It was a sweet, warm night, the moon not up as yet, thus as I
went I lifted my gaze to the heavens where stars made a glory. 
And beholding these wondrous fires I needs must recall the little
peddler's saying and ponder his "good times"--his "times of stars
and birds, of noon and eventide, of welcomes sweet and eyes of
love."

And now I was of a sudden filled with a great yearning and
passionate desire that I too might know such times.  But, as I
climbed a stile, my hand by chance came upon the knife at my
girdle, and sitting on the stile I drew it forth and fell to
handling its broad blade, and, doing so, knew in my heart that
such times were not for me, nor ever could be.  And sitting
there, knife in hand, desire and yearning were lost and 'whelmed
in fierce and black despair.


CHAPTER IX

HOW I HAD WORD WITH THE LADY JOAN BRANDON FOR THE THIRD TIME

The moon was well up when, striking out from the gloom of the
woods, I reached a wall very high and strong, whereon moss and
lichens grew; skirting this, I presently espied that I sought--a
place where the coping was gone with sundry of the bricks, making
here a gap very apt to escalade; and here, years agone, I had
been wont to climb this wall to the furtherance of some boyish
prank on many a night such as this.  Awhile stood I staring up at
this gap, then, seizing hold of massy brickwork, I drew myself up
and dropped into a walled garden.  Here were beds of herbs well
tended and orderly, and, as I went, I breathed an air sweet with
the smell of thyme and lavender and a thousand other scents, an
air fraught with memories of sunny days and joyous youth,
insomuch that I clenched my hands and hasted from the place. 
Past sombre trees, mighty of girth and branch, I hurried; past
still pools, full of a moony radiance, where lilies floated; past
marble fauns and dryads that peeped ghost-like from leafy
solitudes; past sundial and carven bench, by clipped yew-hedges
and winding walks until, screened in shadow, I paused to look
upon a great and goodly house; and as I stood there viewing it
over from terrace-walk to gabled roof, I heard a distant clock
chime ten.

The great house lay very silent and dark, not a light showed save
in one lower chamber.  So I waited patiently, my gaze on this
light, while, ever and anon, the leaves about me stirred in the
soft night-wind with a sound like one that sighed mournfully.

Thus stayed I some while; howbeit, the light yet aglow and my
patience waning, I stole forward, keeping ever in the shadows,
and, ascending the terrace, came where grew ivy, very thick and
gnarled, overspreading this wing of the house.  Groping amid the
leaves I found that I sought--a stout staple deep-driven between
the bricks with above this another and yet other again, the which
formed a sort of ladder whereby, as a boy, I had been wont to
come and go by night or day as I listed.

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