It was in the broad and still moonlight of a spring morning, in the year
16--, that two horsemen were ascending by a steep and difficult pass
through the Trough of Bolland, along the hills and almost pathless wilds
of the forest. They were apparently of that dubious class called
"Knights of the Post,"--highway-men, deer-stealers, or cattle-harriers;
all and every of which occupations they occasionally followed.
As they passed by the edge of a steep ravine, from which hung a few
stunted oaks projecting over the gulf, the foremost rider--for the path
admitted them not abreast--turned sharply round on his saddle.
"Again!--Didst thou not see it, Michael?" inquired he, in great alarm.
"Nothing, Anthony, as I do follow thee in this honest trade;--nothing, I
tell thee, save thine ugly face in this clear moonshine. Prythee, make
more speed, and thou wilt have the fewer wry mouths to answer for. Thou
art fool enough to make a man forswear honesty, and rid him of his
conscience for life. Beshrew me! thou hast got a troublesome tenant;
either less roguery, or fewer qualms; depend on 't, thou canst not keep
friends with both.
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