Your wall will want another patch when I am done,' he says. 'But
'twill be made good. Go thy ways.' And he draws out his hanger, and
there was sweat on his brow and he breathed fast, as if he was wild
with his anxiousness to find what he sought."
"And didst leave him?" asked her Grace, as quiet as before. "For how
long?"
The old man grinned.
"Not for long," said he, "nor did I go far. I stood outside, where I
could see through the crack o' the door."
The Duchess nodded with an unmoved face.
"He was like a man in a frenzy," the host went on. "He dug at the
plaster till I thought his sword would break; he dug as if he were paid
for it by the minute. He made a hole bigger than had been there before,
and when 'twas made he thrusts his hand in and fumbles about, cursing
under his breath. And of a sudden he gives a start and stops and pants
for breath, and then draws his hand back, and it was bloody, being
scratched by the stone and plaster, but he held somewhat in it, a
little dusty package, and he clutches it to his breast and laughs
outright. Good Lord, 'twas like a devil's laugh, 'twas so wild and
joyful. 'Ha, ha!' cries he, shaking the thing in the air and stamping
his foot, 'Jack Oxon comes to his own again, to his own!'"
"Then," says her Grace, more slowly still, "that was his name? I have
heard it before."
"I heard it again," said the old story-teller, eager to reach his
climax.
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