We trooped up to a fair stone house of ancient date with a turret at the
tip of each wing. My luck was clean out. The Squire was not yet back home
from hunting, for he went out with the hounds every day the scent would
lie. He had ridden far, or was belated, or his horse had foundered, and
there was no telling, said his ruddy old butler, when he would be back. So
the villagers were driven off like cattle, Sultan was stabled, and we five
were accommodated in the great hall, for the host and the ostler stayed on
the ground that so dangerous a villain as Swift Nicks wanted a strong
guard. They put me under the great chimney and sat round me, in a half
circle, each man with a loaded pistol in one hand and a jug of ale in the
other. The Squire's lady came in and stood afar off examining me, and I
saw that she was in deadly fear of me, handcuffed and guarded as I was.

Over an hour crawled by, taking with it my last chance of getting into
Derby, with my task accomplished, by six o'clock. What would Margaret
think of me? Her obvious pride in the honour the Prince had conferred upon
me by selecting me as his personal helper, had been a great delight to me,
and now I had failed him and disquieted her. The thought made me rage, and
I gave my captors black looks worthy of any tobie-man on the King's
highway.

At last relief came in the shape of the Squire's youngest son, a stout
lad of some twelve years old, who raced in, rod in hand, and made up to me
without a trace of fear. He was in trouble about his rod, having snapped
the top joint in unhandily dealing with a fine chub. After some wrangling,
I got my hands freed, and set about splicing the joint.

"They do say," said I mockingly, "as how Swift Nicks is a good hand at
splicing fishing-rods."