Long did she wait; cold and cramped
she became, too damp and stiff to change her posture readily. And
after all, he might never come! But, she would wait till daylight,
if need were; and she pulled out a crust, with which she had
providently supplied herself. The rain had ceased,--a dull, still,
brooding weather had succeeded; it was a night to hear distant
sounds. She heard horses' hoofs striking and splashing in the
stones, and in the pools of the road at her back. Two horses; not
well-ridden, or evenly guided, as she could tell.
Michael Hurst and a companion drew near: not tipsy, but not sober.
They stopped at the gate to bid each other a maudlin farewell.
Michael stooped forward to catch the latch with the hook of the stick
which he carried; he dropped the stick, and it fell with one end
close to Susan,--indeed, with the slightest change of posture she
could have opened the gate for him. He swore a great oath, and
struck his horse with his closed fist, as if that animal had been to
blame; then he dismounted, opened the gate, and fumbled about for his
stick. When he had found it (Susan had touched the other end) his
first use of it was to flog his horse well, and she had much ado to
avoid its kicks and plunges.
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