The sad business over and done with, these guests
returned to the house, where until noon a mighty breakfast lasted and
all were welcome. Their black habiliments and lowered voices alone
marked the difference between it and a hunting-breakfast.
And indeed this morning Squire Willyams, who had taken over the
hounds after Squire Moyle's death, had given secret orders to his
huntsmen; and the pack was waiting at Three-barrow Turnpike, a couple
of miles inland from Carwithiel. At half-past ten the mourners
drained their glasses, shook the crumbs off their riding-breeches,
and took leave; and after halting outside Carwithiel gates to unpin
and pocket their hat-bands, headed for the meet with one accord.
A few minutes before noon Squire Willyams, seated on his grey by the
edge of Three-barrow Brake, and listening to every sound within the
covert, happened to glance an eye across the valley, and let out a
low whistle.
"Well!" said one of a near group of horsemen catching sight of the
rider pricking toward them down the farther slope, "I knew en for
unbeliever; but this beats all!"
"And his awnly son not three hours under the mould! Brought up in
France as a youngster he was, and this I s'pose is what comes of
reading Voltaire. My lord for manners, and no more heart than a
wormed nut--that's Sir Harry, and always was."
Squire Willyams slewed himself round in his saddle.
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