'Then it is time you were in bed, Mr Scudamore, for my mare and I
will be wanted,' he cried. 'God be praised! I thank you for the good
news. It makes me young again to hear it.'

'What the devil do you mean by jerking this cursed knee of mine so?'
shouted Scudamore. 'Faith, you were young enough in all conscience
already, you fool! You want to keep me in bed, as well as send me
there! Well out of the way, you think! But I give you honest warning
to look after your mare, for I vow I have fallen in love with her.
She's worth three, at least, of your mistress Dorothies.'

'You talk like a Dutch boor,' said Richard.

'Saith an English lout,' retorted Scudamore. 'But, all things being
lawful in love and war, not to mention hate and rebellion, this
mare, if I am blessed with a chance, shall be--well, shall be
translated.'

'You mean from Redware to Raglan.'

'Where she shall be entertained in a manner worthy of her, which is
saying no little, if all her paces and points be equal to her walk
and her crest.'

'I trust you will be more pitiful to my poor Lady,' said Richard,
quietly. 'If all they say be true, Raglan stables are no place for a
mare of her breeding.'

'What do you mean, roundhead?'