foot after foot, more clever than we can do it, and the orderly jerk of the tail, and the smell of what a horse is.

John Fry was bowing forward with sleep upon his saddle, and now I could no longer see the frizzle of wet upon his beard—for he had a very brave one, of a bright red colour, and trimmed into a whale-oil knot, because he was newly married—although that comb of hair had been a subject of some wonder to me, whether I, in God’s good time, should have the like of that, handsomely set with shining beads, small above and large below, from the weeping of the heaven. But still I could see the jog of his hat—a Sunday hat with a top to it—and some of his shoulder bowed out in the mist, so that one could say ‘Hold up, John,’ when Smiler put his foot in. ‘Mercy of God! where be us now?’ said John Fry, waking suddenly; ‘us ought to have passed hold hash, Jan. Zeen it on the road, have ‘ee?’

‘No indeed, John; no old ash. Nor nothing else to my knowing; nor heard nothing, save thee snoring.’

‘Watt a vule thee must be then, Jan; and me myzell no better. Harken, lad, harken!’

We drew our horses up and listened, through the thickness of the air, and with our hands laid to our ears. At first there was nothing to hear, except the panting of the horses and the trickle of the eaving drops from our head-covers and clothing, and the soft sounds of the lonely night, that make us feel, and try not to think. Then there came a mellow noise, very low and mournsome, not a sound to be afraid of, but to long to know the meaning, with a soft rise of the hair. Three times it came and went again, as the shaking of a thread might pass away into the distance; and then I touched John Fry to know that there was something near me.

‘Doon’t ‘e be a vule, Jan! Vaine moozick as iver I ‘eer. God bless the man as made un doo it.’

‘Have they hanged one of the Doones then, John?’

‘Hush, lad; niver talk laike o’ thiccy. Hang a Doone! God knoweth, the King would hang pretty quick if her did.’

‘Then who is it in the chains, John?’

I felt my spirit rise as I asked; for now I had crossed Exmoor so often as to hope that the people sometimes deserved it, and think that it might be a lesson to the rogues who unjustly loved the mutton they were never born to. But, of course, they were born to hanging, when they set themselves so high.

‘It be nawbody,’ said John, ‘vor us to make a fush about. Belong to t’other zide o’ the moor, and come staling shape to our zide. Red Jem Hannaford his name. Thank God for him to be hanged, lad; and good cess to his soul for craikin’ zo.’

So the sound of the quiet swinging led us very modestly, as it came and went on the wind, loud and low pretty regularly, even as far as the foot of the gibbet where the four cross-ways are.

‘Vamous job this here,’ cried John, looking up to be sure of it, because there were so many; ‘here be my own nick on the post. Red Jem, too, and no doubt of him; he do hang so handsome like, and his ribs up laike a horse a’most. God bless them as discoovered the way to make a rogue so useful. Good-naight to thee, Jem, my lad; and not break thy drames with the craikin’.’

John Fry shook his bridle-arm, and smote upon Smiler merrily, as he jogged into the homeward track from the guiding of the body. But I was sorry for Red Jem, and wanted to know more about him, and whether he might not have avoided this miserable end, and what his wife and children thought of it, if, indeed, he had any.

But John would talk no more about it; and perhaps he was moved with a lonesome feeling, as the creaking sound came after us.