'Venison pasty!' said he, staring at the piece Marion offered him. He snatched at it with an eagerness that went to her heart. Half-way to his lips he withdrew it. 'I am a brute!' he said. 'Forgive me. Where is yours?'
'Here. We have one each. Now I shall give you just five minutes, sir.'
Marion smiled down at the upturned face, but her hint brought Roger back to the present. He mounted again, and the two moved forward at a gentle pace, eating and talking as they rode. In a few words Marion explained her plans on his behalf.
'So you are going to banish me to the high seas,' said Roger at the end.
Marion was silent a minute. Then, rousing herself: ''Tis strange by what crooked means a man's fate overtakes him. Do you remember that day on the headland when the _Fair Return_ set sail? My father always said that being a sailor bred and born you would in the end go to sea.'
The slight meal finished, they set their horses at a trot over the springing turf.
'What about my mother?' said Roger. 'Can I not see her before I sail, think you?'
'If we get down to Garth untroubled, perhaps yes. But we may have a close run for it.'
'I think we have not been seen yet,' said Roger.
Roger was silent a while. About five miles out of the city they had come face to face with a small apple-cheeked dame setting out from her cottage with her basket of butter. The little low building, tucked in a fold of the moor, had been unnoticed by them, and they had reduced their speed, hoping that their headlong flight had not already been noted by some one within the cottage walls.
Marion had bidden the dame good morning and talked of the weather. The wind was steadily gathering, and every few minutes came fleeting squalls of rain. The old woman was not in a good temper. A wet market day in Exeter meant poor money for her butter. She feared a heavy storm was brewing. Then she added, not without several motherly glances for the pale-faced groom who rode just behind the lady: 'If so be you'm for Mortonhampstead, Mistress, 'twere best to take to the left down along and find the waggon track. Folk do sure lose themselves easily on they moors, and there be terr'ble danger of bogs up over. Only yesterday a gentleman got off the track. Mighty near to sinking in Tinker's Cup a'd been, with bog muck up to the horse's knees. 'Twas as fine a gentleman as ever a clapped eyes on. And a crown her gave me, as cool as day, for setting of un right.'