CHAPTER XXI.

ROGER REPAYS HIS MASTER.


A mile or more beyond the spot where Gilbert Potter had been waylaid,
there was a lonely tavern, called the "Drovers' Inn." Here he
dismounted, more for his horse's sake than his own, although he was
sore, weary, and sick of heart. After having carefully groomed Roger
with his own hands, and commended him to the special attentions of the
ostler, he entered the warm public room, wherein three or four
storm-bound drovers were gathered around the roaring fire of hickory
logs.

The men kindly made way for the pale, dripping, wretched-looking
stranger; and the landlord, with a shrewd glance and a suggestion of
"Something hot, I reckon?" began mixing a compound proper for the
occasion. Laying aside his wet cloak, which was sent to the kitchen to
be more speedily dried, Gilbert presently sat in a cloud of his own
steaming garments, and felt the warmth of the potent liquor in his
chilly blood.

All at once, it occurred to him that the highwayman had not touched his
person. There was not only some loose silver in his pockets, but Mark
Deane's money-belt was still around his waist. So much, at least, was
rescued, and he began to pluck up a little courage. Should he continue
his journey to Chester, explain the misfortune to the holder of his
mortgage, and give notice to the County Sheriff of this new act of
robbery? Then the thought came into his mind that in that case he might