"And if there comes no well-mounted traveller?"
"I know not, sir. But—perhaps he will come."
"'T is a cheap rogue who has but one horse," I observed contemptuously. "You are only a footpad, a simple-minded marquis of the bludgeon."
Now, as I had hoped, this deeply cut his pride.
"Did I not speak of the ballads, sir?" he demanded with considerable spirit. "Horses? Aye, and have I not three good nags hid behind my mother's cottage, which is less than a mile from this spot?"
"Monsieur Jem Bottles," said I, not forgetting the French manners which my father had taught me, "unless you instantly show me the way to these horses I shall cut off your hands, your feet, and your head; and, ripping out your bowels, shall sprinkle them on the road for the first post-horses to mash and trample. Do you understand my intention. Monsieur Jem Bottles?"
"Sir," he begged, "think of my mother!"
"I think of the horses," I answered grimly. "'T is for you to think of your mother. How could I think of your mother when I would n't know her from the Head of Kinsale, if it didn't happen that I know the Head of Kinsale too well to mistake it for anybody's mother?"
"You speak like a man from foreign parts, sir," he rejoined in a meek voice; "but I am able to see that your meaning is serious."
"'T is so serious," said I, rapping him gently on the head with the butt of my pistol, "that if you don't instantly display a greedy activity you will display a perfect inability to move."
"The speeching is obscure," said he, "but the rap
