He found the
horse tied to a ring in the stable wall, and the groom having a sorry
time of it, since every time the groom touched him with comb or brush
the animal backed, or turned, or laid back his ears and snapped with
his teeth. For the monks at the priory had furnished the king's man, on
his compulsion, with the worst horse in their stables.
"Here be a beast fit for the Evil One and for nobody else," grumbled
the sorely tried groom. "I am like to be killed for my pains in trying
to smooth his coat for him."
The groom was a tall, overgrown fellow of nineteen, with a vacant face
and an ever-running tongue. He now stood stock still upon the approach
of Walter Skinner and gazed at him. He would have done the same if any
creature possessed of the power of locomotion had come into his view.
But of that Walter Skinner was ignorant. To him the gaze of the groom
seemed honor and respect toward himself, and even, perhaps, awe. And he
was at once mollified.
"My horse is a beast of mettle," he observed complacently when the
groom had returned to his work.
"Ay, and I would that his master, the Evil One, had the grooming of
him," was the retort.
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