That blessed King hates the man; how he lashes his heels at him!" It was certainly possible that Willon might be passing an idle hour in potting rabbits, or be otherwise innocently engaged enough; but the sight of him, there among the gorse, was a sight of suspicion to Rake.
Instantaneous thoughts darted through his mind of tethering his horse, and making a reconnaissance, safely and unseen, with the science of stalking brute or man that he had learned of his friends the Sioux.

But second thoughts showed him that was impossible.

The horse he was on was a mere colt, just breaking in, who had barely had so much as a "dumb jockey" on his back; and stand for a second, the colt would not.
"At any rate, I'll unearth him," thought Rake, with his latent animosity to the head groom and his vigilant loyalty to Cecil overruling any scruple as to his right to overlook his foe's movements; and with a gallop that was muffled on the heathered turf he dashed straight at the covert, unperceived till he was within ten paces.

Willon started and looked up hastily; he was talking to a square-built man very quietly dressed in shepherd's plaid, chiefly remarkable by a red-hued beard and whiskers.
The groom turned pale, and laughed nervously as Rake pulled up with a jerk.
"You on that young 'un again?
Take care you don't get bucked out o' saddle in the shape of a cocked-hat." "I ain't afraid of going to grass, if you are!" retorted Rake scornfully; boldness was not his enemy's strong point.

"Who's your pal, old fellow ?" "A cousin o' mine, out o' Yorkshire," vouchsafed Mr.Willon, looking anything but easy, while the cousin aforesaid nodded sulkily on the introduction.
"Ah! looks like a Yorkshire tyke," muttered Rake, with a volume of meaning condensed in these innocent words.