•••••l 
 
 HUR C 
 
 HYNNE 
 
 
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 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 SIR BEVILL
 
 SIR BEVILL 
 
 Bv 
 
 ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER THYNNE 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 BY J. LEY PETHYBRIDGE 
 
 JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD 
 LONDON ^ NEW YORK MDCCCCIV 
 LAUNCESrON : WALTER WEIGHELL
 
 
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 Printed by Hallantyke, Hanson <&* Co. 
 London ^r' Edinburgh
 
 
 
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 SIk IJEVILI. 
 h'roin a painting by Vandyck
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 PART I.— THE STAG-HUNT 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. THE HOME LIFE , 
 II. SHAUGH PRIOR 
 III. THE RUN .... 
 IV. THE WOUNDING OF MR. MOYLE 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 
 22 
 
 43 
 
 PART n.— THE WITCH-HUNT 
 
 I. ELIOT'S ENCOUNTER WITH THE GYPSIES . 
 
 II. A TROUBLED HEART 
 
 III. RICHARD APOLOGISES TO HIS UNCLE . 
 
 IV. LIZZIE PASCHOWE 
 
 V. AUNTY ZIP 
 
 VI. MASTER TKEAGUE QUOTES THE PROPHET J013 . 
 VII. AND RICHARD QUOTES KING JAMES . 
 VMI. "a TREATISE ON DEMONOLOGIE," liY JAMES I. 
 
 IX. LADY jane's ADVICE 
 
 X. TWO QUARTS OF SACK DELAY THE WORK OF RESCUE 
 XI. ANTHONY LOSES HIS WAY IN A STORM 
 XII. THE RESCUE 
 
 XIII. Richard's punishment 
 
 XIV. mistress grace has furthicu misgivings 
 
 XV. MOW TKEAGUE WAS MADE TO PAY 1 OR Till. UI:AI 
 
 COB . . . • 
 
 XVI. LADY JANK reads UEVILL'S THOUGHTS 
 
 51 
 
 66 
 
 73 
 
 83 
 89 
 100 
 log 
 118 
 123 
 
 133 
 
 139 
 147 
 157 
 »73 
 
 1 80 
 18G.
 
 VI 
 
 Confcnts 
 
 CHAP. I'AGE 
 
 XVII. vulcan's leap recalls bevill to honour and 
 
 DUTY 
 
 XVIII. eliot's fears for his friend bevill 
 
 XIX. THE LAST OF AUNTY ZIP . 
 
 192 
 198 
 203 
 
 PART III.— THE MASQUE 
 
 I. MASTER DELAMERE .... 
 II. LADY jane's confession . 
 
 III. MISTRESS GRACE BLAMES HERSELF . 
 
 IV. MASTER DELAMERE DIVULGES A SECRET 
 V. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE MASQUE 
 
 VI. LADY JANE VISITS MISTRESS GRACE . 
 VII. THE LEGALISED MURDER OF NOBLE RALEIGH 
 
 209 
 
 2X8 
 225 
 229 
 
 244 
 
 PART IV.— TREAGUE'S REVENGE 
 
 I. HE PREPARES HIS PLANS . 
 
 II. TREAGUE CARRIES OUT HIS PLANS 
 
 III. TRIAL AND SENTENCE. 
 
 IV. BEVILL COUNTS HIS LOST HOURS 
 
 257 
 271 
 
 281 
 
 293 
 
 PART v.— GLORY AND DEATH 
 
 I. THE VISIT TO THE TOWER 
 II. HOW RICHARD WON A WIFE 
 
 III. THE THANKS OF THE KING. 
 
 IV. "A Granville! a granville!" 
 
 303 
 313 
 
 318 
 326 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 336
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Portrait of Sir Bevill, from a painting by Vandyck Frontispiece 
 
 Fating page 
 
 " The Hounds began to bay and swim in at him " . . -34 
 
 "/ thank thee, Sir John. There is Glory and — and Death 
 
 written large in thy face " 64 
 
 A View of Old Stowe (as it is to-day) 92 
 
 An Old Corner in Kilkhampton 178 
 
 " Tony pushed open the door and entered with a grin on his 
 
 face" 183 
 
 ^^ May I claim thee mine, Grace ?" 300 
 
 " God and the Granville I" 333
 
 Sir Bevill 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 IN the Third ParUament of Charles the First Bevill Gran- 
 ville sat for Launceston, and upheld his friend Sir John 
 Eliot in defence of the privileges of the House. With 
 sorrow he saw him sent for the first time to the Tower for 
 displeasing the King, and with tears of joy in his eyes 
 welcomed his release — demanded by Parhament — and 
 hastened to join him at Cuddenbeck. The disaster at 
 Rochelle and the assassination of the Duke of Buckingham 
 had stirred the mind of England, though there was more of 
 relief than consternation at the latter event, for the Duke 
 had incurred the bitter hatred of the people. 
 
 "Thine enemy has fallen, John," said Bevill, "whether 
 by the hand of a lunatic or no matters but little ; few, 
 Vxisides the King, will mourn his death, yet as a man he 
 had the merit of courage — but so has a dog for the matter 
 of that," he added. 
 
 " Nay, friend, his was no dog courage," replied Eliot. 
 "Sure I had scant cause to love him of late years, but it 
 was not mere animal courage that made him wait on that 
 fatal causeway, and bring up the rear at Rochelle, amid 
 the storm of shot and fierce onset of a victorious enemy 
 maddened to vengeance. It was true courage. Thy 
 brother Richard, dear Bevill, has gained himself a soldier's
 
 Sir Bevill 
 
 name and well earned his knighthood. What a son of 
 mischief he was when as a lad he gave thy dear wife cause 
 to dread the very sound of his voice. How well I remember 
 his treatment of Sir Thomas Monk that night, and his 
 devices to escape his father's displeasure. The boy Monk 
 has been made into a soldier, and, as I am told, swears 
 that thy brother, Sir Richard, is the finest soldier in 
 Christendom. He served in his regiment last year at 
 Rochelle with no little honour," 
 
 "It is very pleasant, John, to hear of Richard's well- 
 doing. He hath good parts, and a wonderful readiness 
 both of speech and action. Were he as truthful as he is 
 brave he would be a great man. But I am forgetting the 
 messages of love, of which I am the bearer from my wife. 
 Her distress at thy great sorrow was more than I could 
 bear to see. ' Tell our dear friend,' she said, ' that my 
 heart bleeds for him. Peerless among wives and mothers 
 was his Rhadagund ; little as I had seen of her, I know her 
 enough to love her as a sister.' These were her words, 
 dear friend, and I, who had known her longer than my 
 wife, bear witness to their truth." 
 
 " Aye, 'twas a loss unequalled. None can tell what she 
 was to me," said Eliot. " The world might rage without, 
 but within the door of home 'twas ever light and warmth 
 and peace — yea, peace that passeth understanding, for 
 'twas — I say it with all reverence — it was the peace of God. 
 To that perfect peace she hath passed, while I wait here to 
 work and to suffer for a little while. How long, O Lord, 
 how long ! " 
 
 The far-of^ look in his eyes, a look of mingled hope and 
 sadness, struck his friends to a silence of deep sympathy 
 more eloquent than words. 
 
 And so the days passed, and sterner times arose for all. 
 In his place in Parliament, EHot had commenced his
 
 Prologue 3 
 
 denunciation of the present state of affairs, and of those who 
 caused the trouble when the King's command was received 
 for adjournment. The House of Commons would have 
 none of it, the doors were locked, the Speaker enforced to 
 remain, and Eliot's speech was delivered to the bitter end. 
 So bitter seemed it to the King that after dissolving ParUa- 
 ment he again ordered the committal to the Tower of Sir 
 John Ehot, but this time with eight of his friends and up- 
 holders. One by one, by favour, or submission, his com- 
 panions regained their freedom, and the hero-confessor was 
 left alone to falsify his character, or die. That he chose 
 death none could wonder who knew the steadfastness of 
 that dauntless spirit. In vain BeviJl travelled up to London 
 when he heard of his friend's imprisonment. Nothing 
 would induce Sir Allen Apsley, Lieutenant of the Tower, to 
 allow to his prisoner the access of his Western friends ; their 
 weary journeys were in vain. 
 
 Letters passed at first between them. 
 
 " Dearest Sir," wrote Bevill, — " While I am deprived of 
 my great happiness, the seeing you, it will be my next to 
 hear from you that you are well, which I covetously desire 
 and shall ever pray for as a publick good. Farewell, and 
 love him that will live and dye y' faithfullest frend and 
 servant, 
 
 "Bevill Granville." 
 
 Then after a while, and repeated attempts on the King's 
 part to override his victim's constancy, Eliot's liberty was 
 further restricted. He was removed from the Gate House 
 to an upjxir chamber in the old Tower that has long since 
 passed away. To the right of the great banqueting hall, 
 where many kings, from the time of Rufus, had held high 
 state and feasted their retainers, where Henry the Eighth 
 is said to have entertained each of his wives before their
 
 Sir Bevill 
 
 marriage, was a set of apartments occupied by the Lieu- 
 tenant of the Tower. 
 
 Sir William Balfour had succeeded Apsley, and exercised 
 now all his vigilance in watching over Sir John Eliot. The 
 door and two windows of his sitting-room, opening inwards, 
 commanded a view of the stair which gave access to Sir 
 John's apartments, to the right of the stair was a long 
 passage, dim enough by day, but pitch dark by night at 
 the further end. Two sentries kept guard at the foot of the 
 stair, and a third halberdier was stationed at the entrance 
 from the yard below. It is certain that his lodging was not 
 luxurious, for this most patient and uncomplaining of men, 
 who in all these months of trial and imprisonment uttered 
 scarce one word of censure or accusation against those who 
 wronged him, writing to his friend, John Hampden, 
 says : 
 
 "Sir, — That I write not to you anie thinge of intelU- 
 gence wil be excused, when I doe lett you know that I am 
 under a new restrainte by warrant from the King for a 
 supposed abuse of hbertie in admitting a free resort of 
 visitants, and under that Coulor houlding consultations 
 with my friends. (My lodgings are removed and I am now 
 wher Candle-light may he suffered hut scarce fire.) I hope 
 you'le think that this exchange of places makes not a change 
 of minde. The sam proteccon [sic) is still with me and the 
 same confidence, and these things cann have end by him 
 that gives them being. None but my servants, hardlie my 
 Sonne may have admittance to me." 
 
 There is a tinge of irony as he goes on to speak of the 
 leisure that he had " to dispose himself to business." 
 
 Cut off from his friends, denied the comforts that his 
 declining health required, what wonder that he sank under 
 a consumption, whose slow but sure approaches he was
 
 Prologue 5 
 
 unwilling to recognise. He had no dread of death, but he 
 could not believe in its approach, and he longed for the 
 touch of a friendly hand. " When you are travelhng, my 
 affection still must follow you," he had written to one of 
 his dearest acquaintances ; " when that trouble is at an end 
 and you at the presence of your Lady (that centre both of 
 your felicitie and rest) then shall I likewise meete you 
 intentionally," that is, in intention, which his imprison- 
 ment rendered impossible in person. Later on, when the 
 hardship of his confinement pressed sorely on his heart, he 
 wrote to his friend Bevill : 
 
 " Sir, — The restraint and watch uppon me barrs much of 
 my intercourse with my trends. Wholie their presence is 
 denied me, and letters are soe dangerous and suspected, as it 
 is little that way we exchange . . . Yett yours, though with 
 some difficultie, I have receaved, and manie times when it 
 was knockinge at my dores, because their convoy could not 
 enter, they did retire againe, wherein I must commend the 
 caution of your messenger. But at length it found a safe 
 passage, by my servants, made me happie in your favour 
 for which this comes as a retribution and acknowledge- 
 ment. . . . Represent my humble service to your Ladie, 
 and tell her that yett I doubt not one dale to kiss her 
 hand. Make much of my Godsonne. Men may become 
 pretious in his time, to whom, with all your sweet others, 
 and yourselfe, I wish all happines and felicitie, and rest. 
 ^ Your most faithfull frind and brother. 
 
 Tower 17 (Teb 163 1/2. 
 
 To Mr. Grenvile. 
 
 His wife leaned over Sir Bcvill's shoulder and read their 
 dear friend Sir John Eliot's letter with tears in her eyes. 
 From others they had learned, through his servants, that his 
 health was completely undermined by the conhnemcnt of
 
 Sir Bevill 
 
 his prison, the cold and unhealthiness of his rooms, but he 
 himself never repined. He had appointed Sir Bevill 
 Granville, one of his four staunch friends, a trustee of his 
 estate and children, and held very dear in the bonds of 
 friendship " the grand old Uon-heart" of Stowe, and his 
 " sister," as he was wont to call Bevill's love. 
 " Happen what may, we must see him." 
 " Aye, sweetheart, if goodwill could contrive such an end 
 we should be with him presently. But in truth he is so 
 compassed about with enemies, and, as you perceive by his 
 letter, there is no assurance in even conveying a message 
 to him in safety, that I much fear, unless thy woman's wit 
 be sharper than ours, we shall long await the finding of 
 means to carry out our design." 
 
 " I, too, fear it, dear love ; but we can only fail ; we must 
 find a way ; my will is set on it. They cannot punish us 
 for trymg to see a friend, and, if they do, it would perchance 
 even then bring us nearer to our object. I would gladly 
 be imprisoned for a month or more in the Tower, if by that 
 means I could be of any comfort to our dear friend. They 
 say he is so wasted that we shall hardly know him when 
 we see him." 
 
 They were staying at this time in Bideford, at a house 
 belonging to Bevill's father, Sir Bernarde Granville, built 
 on land granted to his ancestor by William Rufus. 
 
 His wife counselled that they should start at once for 
 London, and on this they determined, but were hindered 
 by the unexpected arrival of Sir Bernarde on the following 
 day. He had come to try and persuade his son from 
 taking any part with those malignants, as he called them, 
 who followed the faction of Sir John EHot, and were 
 opposing his Most Gracious Majesty. His coming was ill- 
 timed, and only served to augment, if not to embitter, the 
 poUtical differences which separated father and son.
 
 Prologue 7 
 
 But there was one quality in this good father that made 
 for peace. He was so constituted that he never paid any 
 attention whatsoever to argument on the other side. His 
 own view was quite sufficient for him, and he would babble 
 on, as if deaf to any reason but his own. Hence he seldom 
 took offence, for the good reason that he never Hstened to 
 the words of him with whom he was conversing ; but simply 
 waited, out of pure pohteness till the other had ceased to 
 speak, and then quietly resumed his own train of thought. 
 " I am anxious, my son, that no stone should be left un- 
 turned here in Cornwall to carry out the wishes of our 
 Most Gracious King. Sir James Bagg hath been with my 
 neighbour, Robartes, and they both were considerate 
 enough to ride over to Killigarth and see me. His Majesty, 
 said Sir James, hath laid that arch-offender, Eliot, by the 
 heels, and doth not intend to release him until he makes 
 his submission and confesses himself to be in error," 
 
 " That he will never do," interjected Bevill with some 
 heat. 
 
 The good Knight took no notice of his son's manner, and 
 continued in the same even tone as before. 
 
 " As you say, Bevill, yes, as you say, that he will never 
 do, and I am glad on't. He is a clever speaker and full of 
 learning, comes of a right noble stock, a man of parts. If 
 he were at liberty he would command a great following in 
 Cornwall, so 'tis best as 'tis, and from what Bagg told me 
 in confidence, his health is faihng so much so that it is 
 unlikely he will come out ahve." 
 
 " Alas, dear father," put in the lady, " my heart aches 
 to tliink of so dear a friend dying in prison. Surely, with 
 your great influence, and the King's favour which he hath 
 marvellously shown to you, something might be done to 
 allow the son of your old friend out of prison. The Tower 
 is no place for a sick man. If he will give his word to
 
 8 Sir Bevill 
 
 return, when called upon, he might be allowed to enjoy the 
 liberty of his own home for his health's sake." 
 
 " Fair lady, the good of our country must ever stand 
 first. I would do much for the son of an old friend, but I 
 will do more for England and my King. Your soft heart 
 would grieve over every prisoner." 
 
 " Indeed it does," she replied sadly. " I pray for them 
 every day, but most of all for Sir John Eliot." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the Knight impatiently, "I know well 
 thou wouldest ; ' tis woman's work ; but we men have to 
 fight in these days, and the King's foes are ours. 'Twere 
 far best for you to join with me to keep Bevill from making 
 one of these malignants. These Knightleys and Hampdens, 
 Strode and Holies and Pym are no fit friends for a 
 Granville in these days. It grieves me mightily to hear of 
 John Arundel and Charles Trevanion, Cornishmen, who 
 should have known better, leaguing themselves to oppose 
 so good a King." 
 
 " These are all good friends of mine, father." 
 
 " Like enough, my son, like enough, but I would have 
 thee see the error of their ways as that wise young man, 
 William Cory ton, has done." 
 
 " He hath turned his coat inside out, I hear. Heaven 
 keep me from following such." 
 
 " Heaven keep thee, lad. I must to bed, for I am 
 weary. I am not young, and I love peace more and more. 
 God grant that thou and thy children fall not on evil days. 
 I give thee good e'en." 
 
 Much to the disquietude of Bevill's plans to see his friend 
 in the Tower, Sir Bernarde stayed on at Bideford, and made 
 it his home for several weeks. The last letter that Bevill 
 had sent to Eliot had been so successfully delivered that, 
 since he was hindered from any present attempt to see him, 
 he wrote again. One may call it a letter of despair.
 
 Prologue 9 
 
 " O my Deare Sir," he began, " such and so great is my 
 agony and distraction at the reports \vh : flye abroad and 
 strik mine eares as I canot expresse it ; nor would tell what 
 I would say, but sure I am it putts me out of my little 
 witts, and much beside myself ; one while you are voiced 
 for dead, another while sick, another while well, but 
 nothing's certaine, either being but common fame, which I 
 have ever found uncertain and lying . . . For God's sake 
 be so pitiful to me as to give me the certainty how you are 
 and with speed too, or you cannot imagine what I shall 
 give myself over unto, nor how long I shall be abandoned. 
 It is lately reported that your Phisitions say that country 
 air wd : be a great preserver of you, and it hath long been 
 reported that you may have your liberty if you will but 
 ask it, wh : if it be so, I humbly beseech you (for your 
 countrie's sake, your children's sake, your frend's sake, 
 which respects the excellency of your wisdom and courage 
 that hath chosen to prefer above yr'self as the constancy of 
 your sufferings doth declare) I say, I beseech you be not 
 nice but pursue your hbertie, if it may be had on honorable 
 terms — if a little bending may prevent a breaking, yeald a 
 little unto it. It may render you the stronger to serve 
 y' country hereafter, I do with great Agony deliver these 
 words wliile y' life is caled in question, but I beseech you to 
 think on it. 
 
 " Your faithfullest frcnd and servant, at Bideford. 
 These for my frend, John Eliot. B. 
 
 " You will jxjrchance condemn my folly in saying that I 
 will see you very shortly. But you cannot do it without 
 acknowledging that for me you would do tlie same. And 
 you may believe it rejjcnts me not." 
 
 This letter was sent to London, and every endeavour 
 made to convey it to Eliot. It never reached him, but
 
 lo Sir Bevill 
 
 that Bevill and his good lady did carry out the promises 
 contained in the letter, to relieve for a few minutes the 
 tedium of torture, the course of this narrative will show. 
 
 On November 27, 1632, that martyr to duty, that great 
 "Confessor" to the liberty of Parliament, Sir John Eliot, 
 drew his last breath. His body was buried in a nameless 
 grave in the Tower, but his name lives while England 
 endures, a memory dear to the hearts of every true lover of 
 righteousness and freedom. These were days of vengeance, 
 Charles left Eliot to die, and in his turn perished on the 
 scaffold. Laud and Strafford, each a type of that tyranny 
 denounced by Eliot, preceded their King to the block, as if 
 to teach all thinking Englishmen that however, in honesty 
 and uprightness, men may hold, as these three men held, 
 principles at issue with the eternal laws of freedom, these 
 laws will most surely avenge their breach. " Charles," it 
 has been wisely written, " parted with the real authority of 
 a kingdom when he forfeited the confidence and affection 
 of his subjects."
 
 PART I 
 THE STAG HUNT 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE HOME LIFE 
 
 " And Sir Richard said again : ' We be all good English men. 
 Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, 
 For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet.' " 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 THE hero of Flores had fought his last and most 
 glorious fight, and found his ocean grave but three 
 short years, when his grandson first saw the light of 
 day in his mother's old home at Brinn in the centre of Corn- 
 wall. Bernarde Granville had married Elizabeth Bevill, a 
 few months after that great sea battle in which his father, 
 Sir Richard Granville, in the Httle " Revenge," had half de- 
 stroyed a Spanish fleet ; and on March 23, 1595, Bevill, son of 
 Bernarde Granville and grandson of Sir Richard, was born. 
 
 Great were the rejoicings at Kiikhamj^ton when the 
 messenger arrived to say that a son and heir was given to 
 the ancient house that had held the lands and manor of 
 this parish since the day when the Conqueror's son granted 
 to Richard de Granville the Manors of Kilcamcston and 
 By-the-Ford in the Counties of Cornwall and Devon. 
 
 That Master William Huish, Rector, did his best to com- 
 memorate the event in the parish register we may be sure.
 
 1 2 Sir B evil I 
 
 For in the year 1598 the old registers were copied out by 
 one George Milton, scribe. This Mr. Milton seems to have 
 taxed all his powers of penmanship in the flourishes which 
 he used to glorify young Bevill's birth. The entry runs as 
 follows : 
 
 " Bevill the sonne of the worshipful Bernerde Greynvyle 
 esquire was Borne and Baptised at Brinn in Cornwall Ac 
 Doi. 1595." 
 
 A side-note states that "He was Borne the 23rd daye. 
 Baptised the 25th daye of Marche." 
 
 Stowe by the Atlantic was the home of his youth, and 
 the joy of his early life : Stowe with its Coombe, oak-clad, 
 seamed, rounded and smooth, the old church tower cutting 
 the horizon three miles away ; to the west rugged, bare and 
 rock-bound, yet filled with a beauty of its own. For here 
 the httle river, till now concealed in woodland depths, 
 sparkles in the sunlight, and lingers lovingly in winding 
 curves, as if coyly hesitating, and loth to leave the emerald 
 meadows before its final plunge to be lost in the vasts of 
 ocean. On either side stand out the great rocks that guard 
 the entrance to the bay, to which sailors of Elizabeth's day 
 never feared to bring their cargoes, or bear off to Bristol 
 their burden of cattle, sheep and corn. Cottages of the 
 peasantry stood in the cross valleys beyond the mill, snugly 
 sheltered from the Atlantic gales, and affording many a 
 companion, young and old, to young Bevill, when he sought 
 the shore with its many delights, and not unfrequent 
 perils. 
 
 At the Mill lived Sampson Yarde and his wife, a child- 
 less couple ; and with them their grandsires, Thomas Yarde 
 and Digory Bowman. These two elders were men of mild 
 and gentle temper. The nose and chin of old Digory were 
 so long that they almost seemed to meet across his tooth- 
 less jaws, while Thomas was fain to trust himself to his
 
 The Home Life i '^ 
 
 vD 
 
 friend's guidance, lest his nearly sightless eyes should cause 
 his feet to stumble into the stream that passed so near to 
 the miller's door. 
 
 There was an old trunk of hollow oak that lay by the 
 path from the shore to the little hamlet, in a sunny corner, 
 smooth, and made smoother still by the two old cronies, for 
 it was their favourite seat. Here they could listen to the 
 roar of the Atlantic, and fancy that they could read its 
 voice and foretell the weather of which it spoke. Here 
 they would tell to each other their well-worn stories of 
 ancient da^'s, and often pour them into the wondering ears 
 of listening children. But of all these children there was 
 not one who loved so well to sit and hearken to their " tell- 
 ing " as young Bevill Granville of Stowe. And indeed their 
 tales might well be wonderful, for they were both born in 
 the early 'twenties when great Henry was King. They had 
 heard the bells ring out for the accession of his son Edward, 
 and again for his daughters Mary and Ehzabeth, and, but 
 the other day, for Jamie from Scotland. 
 
 The two old men had seen these days, nay more, old 
 Digory had made one voyage with Sir Richard, had seen 
 and landed on the shores of Ameriky, had been to Ireland 
 with him too, and could tell wonderful tales of both lands; 
 and truth to tell, Irishmen and Red Indians became, not 
 infrequently, mixed up in his mind and gave a somewhat 
 curious flavour to his stories. Both had sons who had 
 volunteered in '99 among the thousand that drilled upon 
 the bowling green at Stowe under Sir Bernardo Granville's 
 command. Yes, they were rare old story-tellers, and the 
 fair-haired boy, with his large blue wondering eyes, loved 
 to sit between the old men, and shake his long yellow curls 
 witli grave solemnity as they told their talcs of battle and 
 adventure by land anrl sea. 
 
 *• Look here, old Digory, sac what I have brought thee
 
 1 4 Sir Bevill 
 
 to-day. Grannie Mary came yester-e'en and gave me this, 
 and I have brought thee and Tom a good piece each ; she 
 calls it sugar, and it tastes like bee's honey. It came from 
 Ameriky she said. She's the dearest and best grannie that 
 ever lived I think. You know, Digory, she was Sir 
 Richard's wife." He spoke the last words with bated 
 breath and a kind of awe, as if he spoke of one too great 
 almost to be mentioned, while old Digory added softly, 
 " God rest his soul." 
 
 The boy held out a cake of sugar to each of the old men, 
 who took it with many expressions of thanks, and pro- 
 ceeded at once to mumble with the few teeth they possessed 
 a morsel of the precious gift. 
 
 "Thankee, Mars' Bevill. Thankee, tes cruel nice. I 
 hain't a-got neer a tooth but one fer baite un, but he du 
 suck sweet sure nuf he du. Y'um a kaind young genleman 
 yu be to us poor ol souls. Ees, ees, Lady Mary's a proper 
 buty her be. By'r Lady, she wer jes fit fer he. Lor, worn't 
 he masterful. An she's th' only one as he'd gie in tii on 
 this here airth, she were. So her's to Stowe be her ? I do 
 wesh as I cud travel so far jist to set eyes on her again, but 
 there, I caan't, so tes no manner o' good weshin. Tes iaike 
 honey, en it Thomas ? " and the old man wiped his mouth 
 with the back of his hand and solemnly winked at his old 
 comrade. 
 
 " The Lady Mary will be down nigh by this, to-morrow, 
 Thomas. She said to father that she would be to the 
 beach, come to-morrow high water. And that thou 
 knowest, old Digory, will be at half arter ten by the 
 clock." 
 
 " Aye, aye," croaked Digory. " By the Mass. then there'll 
 be tii Lady Marys on the baach. Thou knowest, old 
 Thomas, as how Zachy Poundstocke, him as is nephy to 
 old John, be a bringin in of he's yawlj as ee caaled Lady
 
 The Home Life 15 
 
 Mary, so there'll be tii on em. Lord, I shall dearly luve to 
 see they boa the. He ! he ! Thomas, tii Lady Marys, he ! he ! 
 he ! D'ye mind old Frobby, ee'd a shep wan time as they 
 caaled the Mary, an there wer that there Spanish ship as 
 they caaled Santa Maria, an' that's their way of saying 
 Mary ; them Spanish devils caan't caal any mortial thing 
 by's proper naame. Well, Mars' Bevill, wen old Frobby seed 
 her name a-painted all in gold, ses ee, twer a monsus petty 
 not fer to maak em acquainted wi each other, an' ee ran 
 raight at er art sunked er there an then, ee ded. Ee wer a 
 straight un wer old Frobby. There wer a man abourd o' 
 she caaled Bangers, ee lived along o' Farmer Minnerd to 
 Rectory an ee've a-told me that scores o' times, how as old 
 Frobby shiild saay as her went down, ' There goo to hell 
 will ee thee old Papist, thee'st none of our Marys.' That 
 wer old Frobisher, an ee went to the bottom hissel at last ; 
 ee wer a straight un, ee wer." 
 
 " Havemp I torld thee, Dig," said Thomas Yarde, "as 
 old Martin Frobisher dedn goo t' the bottom, twer that 
 gashly fiile of a doctor man to Plymouth as killed he. He 
 wer wiinded en a vaight wi the Spaniards an the doctor 
 never saarched fer the waddin o' the bullet, an Sir Martin 
 daied. I've a-told thee that afore," added old Thomas, " I 
 wer to Plymouth saame taime. An he wer buried in London 
 Town at the Cripples Gate, so Maistcr Huish have a-told 
 me. 
 
 It was no easy task next morning after Captain Pound- 
 stocke had brought his yawl to anchor off the Coombe 
 Mouth, to land his cargo of coal and Hme by boats. The 
 breeze was gentle and steady off shore, but the great 
 Atlantic waves, that looked as smooth ;us oil, came tower- 
 ing in with a war-like thunder on the blue pebbles, whicli 
 rolled and rattled like musketry as each wave dragged them 
 back into the ocean's bed.
 
 1 6 Sir Bevill 
 
 By nine o'clock the little beach was lined with men and 
 women from Coombe, and before long the word went round 
 that Sir Bernarde and Lady Granville, with the great Sir 
 Richard's widow, had arrived on the scene. 
 
 Mary Granville was a striking figure as she stood upon 
 the sands at Coombe that day, the cynosure of all eyes. 
 Two locks of fair auburn hair, scarce tinged with grey, 
 escaped from under her hood over her shoulders. In front 
 her ringlets were sternly bound back from her broad high 
 forehead. Her face and blue-grey eyes seemed to shine 
 with triumph as she looked out over the ocean waves which 
 her lord had ruled. The same fair colour as hers gleamed 
 on the head of the lad, who stood by her side, looking into 
 the stately face of the worship of his heart, for she was 
 young Bevill's ideal of perfection. On the other side of his 
 daughter Gertrude stood the Knight, fresh-coloured and 
 comely. His bald forehead gave a somewhat vague look to 
 his perfectly oval face, while a bland, self-satisfied smile 
 spoke of a man at peace with the world, and exceedingly 
 contented with himself ; a feeling by no means extending 
 to his son Richard, who pulled with an aggravated frown 
 at the paternal hand that restrained him. 
 
 " Keep with me, my son, the ground swell is dangerous 
 for little boys if they get caught in the retreating waves." 
 
 " I want to go to Charlie Luxon. Let me go, father, I 
 hate standing here with the women. Yonder's Charlie. I 
 prithee let me go." 
 
 " Go, then, and be careful of the waves, my son. My 
 mother, see you how they break and curl back as the wind 
 catches their crests ? One might well turn poet in such a 
 scene. Will Shakespeare's lines come to me as I watch 
 your Ladyship's namesake, the Lady Mary, yonder : 
 
 " 'Bethink me straight of dangerous rocks 
 Which touching but my gentle vessel's side
 
 The Ho?ne Life 17 
 
 Would scatter all her spices on the stream, 
 Enrobe the roaring water with my silks, 
 And in a word but even now, worth this. 
 And now, worth nothing ? '" 
 
 " Truly," replied the Lady Mary, " sweet Master Shakes- 
 peare helps us to express our thoughts in marvellous fair 
 language. I have seen the comedy acted in town. The 
 Merchant of Venice 'tis called. In truth a wondrous 
 play." 
 
 " Hast indeed seen it, and the poet himself ? " broke in a 
 fresh voice, as a lad, holding a pony by the bridle, pressed 
 up to the Lady Mary, cap in hand. 
 
 " How now, John Eliot ? " cried the Knight. " Whence 
 spring you ? Like bird from the sky ? Or hast thou landed 
 on the crest of yonder green breaking wave ? " 
 
 " Nay, good Sir Bernarde, I lay last night at Tonnacombe, 
 and this morning made my way across the valley to Stowe, 
 where Anthony Payne gave me this pony to ride down 
 here and find your worships, and my dear friend Bevill 
 yonder. 'Tis a pleasure to me, and honour to meet your 
 lady also, and the Lady Mary. I kiss your Ladyship's 
 hands." 
 
 The pale eager beautiful face, beautiful more from 
 expression even than feature, looked up to the great lady's 
 eyes and rested admiringly. 
 
 " Thou hast heard of sweet Master Shakespeare then, 
 John Eliot?" said the lady, smiling down at the lad's 
 look of devotion. 
 
 " In truth, my lady, I have heard of little else of late. 
 My father took me last week to Exeter, where we lay at 
 Madford with the good knight Sir George Smith, who vows 
 the world has never seen the like of Will Shakespeare's 
 plays." 
 
 " Mar-, cllous well conceived they are," replied the lady, 
 
 h
 
 1 8 Sir B evil I 
 
 " I had the good fortune to go to the ' Globe ' with my 
 Lady Bath and her brother-in-law, Mr. Bouchier. The 
 King was there seated between young Carr and Cecil, 
 blowing and spluttering, and disturbing all near him with 
 his ungainly Scotch jargon. Forsooth he would have this 
 repeated, an that said over again because of some vulgar 
 jest. I watched the face of William Shakespeare, who was 
 sitting near with Master Benjamin Jonson." 
 
 " Was the poet himself really there ? " said Sir Bernarde. 
 
 " Aye, that he was, and mightily vexed at his Majesty's 
 noise. I heard him mutter to Master Jonson, ' Did'st ever 
 hear pig snuffle the day arter her furrow was weaned ? ' And 
 the fat man laughed and nudged him to keep silence, then 
 whispered, ' Would that he would fall asleep or hearing 
 die,' at which the poet laughed. But the play was most 
 entertaining. How now ! Sir Bernarde — what is that cry ? 
 And where is little Dick ? " 
 
 There was a shout of distress from the beach, women 
 screamed, men rushed hither and thither, Sir Bernarde 
 walked towards the sea, but Bevill and John Eliot dashed 
 down before him, and holding each other's hands plunged 
 into the surf to drag out Uttle Charlie Luxon from the very 
 trough of a breaking wave. Men seized their hands, and, 
 only the worse by a little salt water, they were landed with 
 the rescued boy high and dry on the pebbles. But where 
 was Master Dick ? Two laden boats were coming in slowly 
 from the yawl, and there between them and the shore was 
 a curious Uttle figure. At the first some took it for a dog 
 swimming ashore till the voice of Lady Granville was heard 
 above the roar of the waves as she almost rushed into the 
 sea crying, 
 
 " Richard ! Richard ! It is my boy, my Richard, save 
 him 1 " And then a wonderful thing was done. John Eliot 
 had thrown off his doublet, and racing down behind a
 
 The Home Life 19 
 
 retreating wave had leaped beyond the inrushing crest of 
 the next billow, and was swimming towards the child. Men 
 held their breath. None there could swim. On our 
 northern coast neither children nor men trust themselves 
 in the treacherous deep waters of the Atlantic, but Eliot 
 hailed from the south, and daily all the year round was 
 used to plunge in and swim in the calm sea by Port Eliot. 
 So, big hardy men held their breath while the lad fought 
 his way over the swelhng crests to the floating atom beyond. 
 What was his astonishment on reaching the boy to hear 
 him splutter out, 
 
 "Git along, Johnnie, I'm swemmin to the ship." 
 
 He had been sucked out by the wave, his silken tunic 
 was puffed out at the sleeves, the wave passed over it and 
 made it into a veritable air-cushion, which for a time kept 
 the child afloat, and as the outset of the waves drew him 
 from shore, he conceived the idea of swimming to the ship, 
 for, in spite of all his faults and vices, neither then nor in 
 after days was Dick Granville known to yield to the sensa- 
 tion of fear. 
 
 It was fortunate for him that John Eliot came swimming 
 to him that day ; otherwise he would have sunk as soon as 
 his clothes had become thoroughly saturated, and before 
 other help could be had. Eliot, however, held him up from 
 drowning until one of the boats arrived on the scene, and 
 they were dragged into it, but even then they were in peril 
 from the greatness of the waves, and the undersuck, as 
 they broke and retreated, which well-nigh swamped the 
 boat and its contents, and it was with great difficulty that 
 the men on shore grappled the thwarts of the boat and 
 brought her safely to land, to the great relief of Lady 
 Granville and all the people of Coombe as well as of Sir 
 Bernarde and his friends. 
 
 " Right bravely done, lad ! " quoth Sir Bernarde : " run
 
 20 Sir Bevill 
 
 up to Stowe and get thee a change, an thou hast not 
 brought any." 
 
 " Nay, good Sir Bemarde, I will wait and see the un- 
 lading," said John EUot. " Come, Bevill, we are neither of 
 us quite dry ; we may as well enjoy our freedom, let us 
 help out the cargo," 
 
 "O Johnnie, I would I could swim like you; it would 
 be glorious. When grandfather boarded a Spanish ship, he 
 and his men went to her on some boards and boxes tied 
 together, so old Digory of Coombe says, and as they clomb 
 up the galleon's side the boxes fell to pieces ; sure they 
 must have been good swimmers or they could never have 
 ventured on such a risk." 
 
 "Aye, Bevill," said his grandmother, who had not 
 returned with the others to Stowe, " 'twas true what old 
 Digory said, and I have ever worn a necklace of the pearls 
 which with much gold and silver were found on board of 
 the Spanish galleon. She was sailing from Sancto Domingo 
 for Spain, but my Lord in the good ship Tyger brought 
 her into Plymouth, where I was right joyful to meet him, 
 and with me was his cousin, Sir Walter Raleigh. I must 
 see old Digory, Bevill." 
 
 "That indeed shall you, grandmother; we will go with 
 you to the village. Sight of you would indeed gladden the 
 old man's heart." 
 
 Leaving the boats, which had been beached with no little 
 trouble and some risk of danger from the heavy ground sea, 
 Bevill and John Eliot accompanied Lady Mary to the 
 cross valley in which nestles the hamlet of Coombe. There 
 on their accustomed seat the old men were found, and great 
 was Digory 's joy to see his old master's lady. Long and 
 lovingly did old Thomas caress her hand and peer into her 
 face, as if the look of her eyes would clear the mists from 
 his poor dim vision.
 
 The Home Life 21 
 
 And so they three fared up to Stowe on the hill to find 
 Lady Granville with her little son Richard in the hall by 
 the great fire. The youth was bragging of his exploit. 
 
 " Had not that long-legged John got in my way, mother, 
 I know I could have swimmed to the ship. He thinks a 
 lot of his swimmin, but I can do it just as well as he." 
 
 "Well done, Dick," cried Bevill, who had just entered 
 the hall. " No doubt you are a grand fellow, but if 
 Johnnie had not been pretty quick, you would be feeding 
 the fishes by this time." 
 
 " That's just like you, Bevill, you think because you're 
 bigger nor me that you can put me down when you please. 
 I'll be even with you one of these days." 
 
 " You had better thank Johnnie for saving your life 
 than abuse me for trying to help you mend your manners." 
 
 " Thank you, Johnnie, for saving my life, and next time 
 you try it," he added half aloud, " I hope you'll be 
 drownded." 
 
 " Spiteful little hound," muttered Bevill, as with his 
 friend they went ujistairs to change their clothes.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 SHAUGH PRIOR 
 
 •' '^T^WAS of purpose to find thee, lad, that I came this 
 I way from Exeter," said John Eliot when the boys 
 were alone. 
 
 " Was it not a few miles round, Johnnie ? We can reach 
 Exeter in fifty miles, and at Port Eliot you are not more 
 than that, and here you still are fifty from home." 
 
 " Oh, that is all right. I had the chance to ride with 
 Colonel Fortescue as far as Clovelly, and there I found 
 young Carey starting to see his friends at Tonnacombe, so 
 reached it by the evening and had a good night's rest. 
 But now to my purpose. Thou must find a horse and ride 
 home with me. I have rare work on hand. Some friends 
 of mine are in Plymouth, and we will get them over to stay 
 with us and have great doings. Canst persuade thy father 
 to send young Anthony Payne with thee ? He is worth a 
 dozen, and quite as big as any three." 
 
 " r faith, John, I cannot say. The Lady Mary is 
 staying with us, and she is mightily taken with Anthony, 
 and will have him wait on her when she rides — which he is 
 never loth to do. But she leaves in two days for Launceston, 
 and we might ride with her so far ; I will beseech my father 
 to allow Anthony Payne to come on with us. 'Twill be 
 rare to go home with thee." 
 
 " Aye, lad, we will have a day or two on the moor ; we 
 can ride up by Bickley to Shaugh Prior, and take the
 
 SJiaiigJi Prior 23 
 
 hounds with us to find a stag. I warrant you we have 
 sport. Trevanion and dear Richard Knightly and John 
 Arundel will be there, and Will Coryton has promised me 
 to ride over from Newton Ferrers and bring his dogs. 
 There is a hostel at Shaugh where we will make head- 
 quarters, unless we can find them further out on the moor," 
 
 " What says your good father to this plan ? " 
 
 " He will say nought against it. Besides, he is from 
 home, and I can do as I will." 
 
 Thus it came about that on the third day from this con- 
 versation the Lady Mary rode away from Stowe on a 
 pillion behind Anthony Payne. Stout indeed was the 
 great grey stallion Vulcan that carried the young giant 
 with the lady behind him. So stout, and withal so well 
 bred, of the good old English stock, that he made nothing 
 of the weight. 
 
 It was midday before they had covered the two and 
 twenty miles to Launceston. Here the Lady Mary joined 
 her sister, leaving the two lads with the young giant to 
 continue on their way to Callington. 
 
 " We will e'en push on and sleep at Will Coryton's to- 
 night," said Eliot. " 'Twere well to take him with us, for 
 he knows the forest, and if only we can find Nick Slanning 
 our party will be complete." 
 
 " I love Nick," said Hevill, " he hath a ready wit and, if 
 I mistake not, his father owns no little slice of the moor." 
 
 " I will ask Will Coryton to send him a message." 
 
 There was no need of a messenger, for Slanning had 
 crossed the river, coming from Walkhampton to see his 
 friend Coryton, And there they found him, and good fare 
 for themselves and their horses. 
 
 The plan of cam]:)aign was soon arranged. Coryton and 
 Slanning undertook to mt;et Eliot and his friend in three 
 days' time at Shaugh Prior and bring hounds with them.
 
 24 Sir B evil I 
 
 Slanning engaged to find a forester who could harbour a 
 stag, and next day Bevill and Eliot rode on to Port Eliot, 
 where they found that Trevanion and John Arundel had 
 just arrived from Plymouth. 
 
 It was a bright September morning when the party of 
 friends rode to Calstock, forded the Tamar and turned up 
 the road to Walkhampton. Here they rested their horses 
 and hounds, and were regaled at EHot's expense at the 
 hostel. It was John EHot's treat, and he laid down the 
 law at once that he intended to bear the whole cost of 
 the expedition, and no one should say him nay. Shaugh 
 Prior was reached before night ; nor had they estabhshed 
 their quarters long before a blast from his horn announced 
 the arrival of Cory ton and Slanning with hounds, huntsmen 
 and runners, who knew the moor, 
 
 A little man in green jerkin ran in and out among the 
 dogs as if he were one of them. 
 
 " Hulloo, maypole," he cried as he caught sight of the 
 huge form of Anthony Payne leaning against the house, 
 " canst thou see Yes Tor ? Thees't high 'nuf up." 
 
 " Low enough down to catch a sandhopper Uke thee," and 
 Tony stretched down his great hand to seize the little man. 
 
 " Not quite s'easy," said the man in green, twisting him- 
 self like an eel and delivering at the same time a kick on 
 the giant's shin as he darted by him into the house. 
 
 " Gadzooks ! here's Coryton's green demon," exclaimed 
 John Arundel. " Well, * Tite the Varmint,' hast crept round 
 Sheep's Tor this morning and found a stag ? " 
 
 " Steady, maister, a moment — whose the young jannikin 
 outside the door ? Ef he were to stand a-top o' Yes Tor 
 he might luk from sea to sea ; es he reely oanly wein or es he 
 tii on em tied one a-top o' t'other ? " 
 
 Anthony entered the room at this moment. The little 
 man was under the table in an instant.
 
 Shaiigh Prior 25 
 
 "No offence, Mister Arundel, but hav e seed a grass- 
 hopper hoppin round about here ? I missed it in the 
 dimmet, or I was minded to put my foot upon it." 
 
 " Come up, Varmint, and be introduced to the best hving 
 giant in England, Master Anthony Payne." 
 
 Tite emerged at the far end of the long table from Payne, 
 and jumping up on it made a profound bow. 
 
 " I kiss your noble hand, great sir, at a distance, but 
 yii'll excuse my comin nearer. Yii see before yii a small 
 helpless dwarf who has been afflicted with the timids all his 
 hfe." 
 
 A loud laugh saluted the introduction of dwarf and 
 giant, 
 
 " Nay, Tite," said Nick Slanning, " I've never yet set 
 eyes on that thou art afraid of. Look at him, Anthony, he 
 is small, but he would poke the devil's eye out if the 
 chance were given him. He has an eye hke a hawk, and 
 can run with any hound in the pack. He will find us a stag 
 before to-morrow night." 
 
 "Aye, will I not ?" said the Uttle man proudly. "Yes, 
 long legs, thou seest before thee one who has harboured 
 more stags in the forest than tliou hast ever set eyes on. 
 Let's be friends, dear man." And he ran along the table 
 and literally threw himself into Anthony's arms. 
 
 " I knew I should love thee the moment I set eyes en 
 thee," he cried. "We arc just a pair, yii and me." And 
 the imp standing on the table reached up to Tony Payne's 
 ehin. 
 
 The good-tempered giant laughed aloud, took the little 
 man up with one hand and set him on his shoulder. In a 
 moment he had his legs round the other's neck, and twist- 
 ing his hands in his hair held him at his mercy. 
 
 " Who's maister now, long legs ? By'r Lady, I'll ride 
 thee to-morrow when I'm tired."
 
 26 Sir Bevill 
 
 Bevill, who had been outside talking to Eliot, entered at 
 this moment, and seeing Uttle Tite seated on Tony's 
 shoulders with his legs twisted round his neck, cried out : 
 
 "How now, Anthony, thou art piskey-ridden ? " The 
 giant's face fell, laughter died out of his eyes and lips, and 
 looking up comically with his head on one side he almost 
 screamed : 
 
 " Get off thou — thou— thou httle varmint." 
 " Shan't," said the imp. " Get along, old horse, I'll ride 
 till th'art tired." 
 
 " Take it off, some one ; oh, Mars Bevill, take off the little 
 beast. Piskey-ridden be I ? O Lord, save me. Git out, 
 thee devil. Avaunt, I say. Oh, grammercy, some one 
 claw him off or he'll poison my blood, and spoil my hair, 
 oh that I should have lived to be pisky-ridden. Masters, 
 masters, help ! " And the big man threw himself down on 
 the ground, and shoved his small tormentor almost into the 
 fire. " Git into the fire man, it caan't hurt thee." 
 
 Tite sprang off, and in doing so struck his hand and 
 scratched it against the corner of a stool ; a drop of blood 
 fell on the stone by Anthony's head. He leaped up. 
 
 " Tes Ues," he cried. " Tes no piskey after all," and 
 seizing " the Varmint " by his arms with both hands he 
 held him up level with his own face and looked solemnly 
 into his eyes. " Thee'st little. Thee'stnot handsome, but 
 thee'st got grit : a spunky Httle toad ! I think I'll take 
 care o' thee." And he put him down gently and smoothed 
 his head with his great hand. 
 
 "Thee'st more hke to need my care than I am to need 
 thine," said the little man throwing back his head, but 
 they sat down side by side and soon became close friends. 
 Supper was served and the whole party gathered round 
 the table, the gallants above, and their men below, the salt. 
 It was a goodly company of youths that sat down that day
 
 Shatigh Prior 27 
 
 at the long oaken table in the hostel of Shaugh Prior. At 
 the head of the board John Ehot stood up to say grace, 
 on his right was the fair face of Bevill Granville, and on his 
 left, the oldest of the party, Will Coryton, light com- 
 plexioned, strong of hmb, looking hardy from exposure to 
 all kinds of weather, a contrast to the delicate face and 
 figure of young Slanning by his side. Opposite to them 
 were John Arundel, Richard Knightly and Charhe Tre- 
 vanion. The oldest of them had not seen six and twenty 
 summers ; Bevill, the youngest, would not be thirteen till 
 next Lady Day. Little on that happy September evening 
 could they foresee the bitter black cloud that was even 
 now gathering in the horizon to burst over and destroy the 
 happiness as well as the Hves of almost every one of that 
 fair company. Notliing was there to dim the jollity of the 
 hour. Good fare with good wine, and raetheglin for the 
 men, was in abundance. Low along the valley of the Plym 
 lay the mist in the early morning, as Bevill Granville 
 looked down from the meadow below the hostel. The 
 head of Sheep's Tor stood out clear against the sky, the 
 Nun's Cross and Fox Tor to the north looked dark and 
 threatening in the sharp east wind. He could read the 
 signs of the Atlantic, but here he was altogether at fault. 
 
 The old Newton Ferrers huntsman, bare-legged below the 
 knee, without a coat, his wrinkled face looking blue and 
 healthy, came across to him from the yard and bade him 
 good morning. 
 
 " A cold and gloomy morning, Dick Craddock," said the 
 boy. " I fear me the hounds will be lost in the mist." 
 
 "Nay, nay, yer honour's wrong," said the moorman 
 born. " Tes an easterly sky weth clean- toj)ped hills. Waat 
 till the sun ariseth an come again in an hour and tell old 
 Dick if the valleys be not clear and the mists curling round 
 the tors. Tes a mornin to harbour a right good hart, an
 
 28 Sir Bevill 
 
 tes tii nigh Holy Rood day to find him far from his 
 hinds." 
 
 They were joined by Cory ton and EHot. 
 
 " Will it do, Dick ? " shouted the former in his great voice, 
 which caused several windows behind him to clatter open 
 and heads to appear therefrom looking somewhat rough 
 and unkempt. " Will it do, old man ? " 
 
 " Aye maister, thee knowest the luk on't. Gaylass and 
 Ladybird will have to do all they know to keep old Juno in 
 sight ; she'll fly this day. Barum's in rare form, working 
 rather fine in the lear, but hard as flint, Meavy's too fat 
 for to-day, but there's Clarion and Bess. Queen Bess I 
 call her. Juno won't leave her far, young as she is, the 
 darling. What's Mr. Ehot got, yer honour ? Dragon and 
 Fire Fly and Drake, I'll warrant." 
 
 " Yes, Dick," said the sweet soft voice, " all here and all 
 fit to go. I brought six couple; they are not so high as yours 
 but the same blood and in fairly good condition. Our 
 huntsman is ill, so Tom takes the horn to-day." 
 
 "Raaight, sir, always raaight is Maister John EUot. 
 Tom'll dii, a laaikly lad and knaws the moor. His father 
 were drownded in Cranmere Pool, coming across from 
 Okehampton, but then, he were a drinkin man, but Tom's 
 sober." 
 
 They were joined by Slanning and the rest, who came 
 out just in time to see the sunrays strike Sheep's Tor, and 
 gather up the mists, first in whirling wreaths, which at 
 times came down over Shaugh Prior and then cleared and 
 gathered round the tors, to pass up at last towards the sun. 
 While they were breakfasting on cold beef and ale, Tite the 
 Varmint came in with a smile of profoundest self-satisfac- 
 tion on his narrow face. The reddish foxy eyes Uterally 
 glittered with pride as he saluted the company and took 
 his place at the board next to Anthony without a word.
 
 .v 
 
 Shaiigh Prior 29 
 
 " Well, little man," said the giant, " how long do yii 
 think yii can keep it swaller'd down ? Wy yii're jest 
 bustin with summat. Out weth it, man, or yii'll die 
 where yii sit." 
 
 " Prythee hold thy noise, my head's filling is for my 
 master's use, and not for thee," 
 
 " I hke thy pride, imp, natheless, out weth thy story." 
 
 " Master Coryton, dost thou know where the Cad stream 
 meets the Plym ? Tes woodland, and half way up the hill- 
 side tor there's a flat weth oaken scrub. I've haboured 
 there a hart of ten ; nay by his slot I venture a bottle of 
 wine he hath jour a4op." 
 
 " Are hinds about ? " quoth Dick Craddock. 
 
 "Three slots of hinds I passed, no more." 
 
 " How didst get back so soon ? Tes five or six miles from 
 here," said Coryton. 
 
 " I took mine host's pony and tied him when T crossed 
 the first hind's slot." 
 
 " Thou art a treasure, Tite, and shalt have thy bottle of 
 wine if he is a huntable hart of ten."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE RUN 
 
 " T ADS, let's away, 'tis six o'clock," cried Eliot. 
 
 1^ Craddock and Tom led out the hounds all in couples 
 and rode ahead of them while two helpers rode 
 behind. There were twelve couples in all, not a very even 
 pack, nor a pack that would pass muster in later days, but 
 they were true and useful, strong of bone and deep of 
 chest. Many of them stood high, yet were they not long of 
 leg. Great deep-flewed Juno looked like a queen among 
 them all. And her children were not a few in the pack. 
 
 Bevill was mounted on a dark mouse-coloured pony that 
 his grandmother had sent him from the Exmoor forest, lean 
 of neck, long and deep in the shoulder, wide across pins and 
 back, with just room for the saddle. Eliot's gelding looked 
 all over like speed and had Spanish blood. The rest who 
 rode, except Anthony on Vulcan, had Dartmoor ponies of 
 different sizes, hardy and clever as cats. They numbered 
 thirteen, besides the landlord and a few farmers from 
 Shaugh and Bickley. 
 
 " We will tuft with only four, the rest must hold the 
 pack," said Cory ton. So ten men dismounted when they 
 reached Plym Head, and held each a brace of hounds. 
 Coryton and Craddock rode on with four old hounds and 
 Tite, and were soon lost to sight in the straggling coppice. 
 Bevill and Eliot sat side by side a little apart, on a bare 
 knoll, rocky but smooth, a few feet higher than the rest.
 
 The Run 31 
 
 " 'Tis a rare sight, Bevill boy. Doth it not make the 
 pulses beat and the nerves quiver ? I know of no moment 
 Uke waiting for hounds to find, the ear strained for the first 
 faint whisper of music, the eyes roving round to catch the 
 first ghmpse of the game. Yes, even the sight of a poor 
 timid hare as she starts from her form and races from the 
 pack warms the blood. How much more the ecstasy of— 
 hark ; old Nestor spoke and Rufus is answering, he always 
 says Amen Uke a parish clerk to Nestor. Hark again, that 
 was my Ruby's yap. She is not certain, or would give it 
 full-mouthed. See, Bevill, how the mist gathers yonder, 
 and flies again down the wind. If we move an old hart 
 he will break westward in the wind and work up to the 
 Erme Valley, or by the Avon. Hark again." 
 
 A hind dashed through the bushes close to them; so 
 close that their horses started and almost wheeled round. 
 
 " Back Ruby, back Nestor," shouted Eliot. The next 
 moment a shout and then a long winding blast from Crad- 
 dock's horn, repeated again, and out rode the huntsman 
 with Rufus at his heels calling Ladybird, Ruby and 
 Nestor. Coryton urged them to Craddock by voice and 
 whip. 
 
 "Ten points or more," he shouted. "A royal! 
 lads, a royal ! " Quickly the two huntsmen and their 
 helpers unbuckled the couples and the twenty hounds were 
 at Dick Craddock's heels as he spurred his active httle horse 
 up the side of the tor rather to the west. Yet he was in no 
 hurry. His sharp, quick eyes were fixed on a jwint where 
 a rough jutting rock forms a kind of wall about half a mile 
 up the side of the hill. A shout from Titc made him turn, 
 and what was his astonishment to sec themighty hart, with 
 antlers thrown back till they touched, or seemed to touch, 
 his haunches, speeding along at a heavy loping gallop 
 pointing for the great rock of the Dewerstone. He sunk
 
 32 Sir B evil I 
 
 the valley and was lost to sight. That he might have turned 
 up the valley to Sheep's Tor was their hope. 
 
 " Yonder's a ' wise hart,' " quoth Craddock, reining up 
 his horse. "He'll give us trouble, I zim, I wager he doubles 
 back on the Erme. Not likely he'll leave his hinds until 
 he's pressed. Juno, brach, thou'lt press him though these 
 day." 
 
 The " wild and wondrous " region around Sheep's Tor, 
 so bare and rugged, seemed to promise a fair run in the 
 open moor, but when Dick laid on his pack the hunters 
 speedily found they that had a master of craft to deal with. 
 The moment she owned the slot Juno rushed to the front, 
 but before she had led the pack a hundred yards she had 
 overrun the scent. The stag had doubled back to the 
 Plym ; down towards the rocky banks they turned, casting 
 wide and silent. A roar from Nestor brought them to the 
 water's edge. 
 
 " He's taken soil," cried Coryton. "Down stream. Down 
 stream, Dick." And Dick's horn rang out and brought 
 back echoes from the tor above. Down stream it was, but 
 not far. Ladybird gave it merrily on the other side, and 
 through rocks and by shallows, hounds and horsemen were 
 over the Plym river and pointing back to the Erme. They 
 were flying now and rousing the moor with music. A hind 
 started up from a pit beneath a boulder, and it was near 
 half an hour before Craddock could bring back his hounds 
 to their line. Rarely he did it at last, and sweeping wide 
 towards Erme, hit off the scent of the stag. Oh, so cun- 
 ningly moved the great deer now ! He had gained time to 
 fetch his breath and clear his head, he would lead them a 
 dance to-day. Soiling again in Erme he went down for 
 many a mile and then turned up a small tributary stream 
 and lay still under a bank. The pack had passed below him 
 still working on, down Erme, but now in silence. 'Twas
 
 The Run 33 
 
 only a wet pebble that the little Varmint was looking at so 
 keenly ! But that wet pebble told the tale that some one 
 had wetted it. Yes, beyond it in the clear shallow was a 
 slot, such as none but a great hart could leave ; and the 
 little man ran swiftly up along the bank of the httle stream. 
 Like a dead branch close to the bank, what are those points ? 
 Tite quivered with excitement. He seized a stone and threw 
 it. Yes, they moved ! Retreating back to a knoll, for he 
 knew well the danger from an angry hart, he raised his 
 shout, "Hark! Hark! What ho! What ho !" Piercing 
 and shrill his voice rang through the valley, Dick knew it and 
 turned his horse ; Juno knew it and raced back on her tracks ; 
 Coryton knew it and wheeled his stout mare up the bank 
 and away up the side of the hill, followed by the rest. The 
 hart heard it and leapt from his cover to the bank, with 
 angry eyes ; for a moment he surveyed the Varmint, as much 
 as to say, " I would dearly love to gore you, had I but 
 time." But no, he knew too well to waste precious 
 moments. Shaking the water from his flanks he bounded 
 away. No thought for hinds now, the pack had viewed 
 him half a mile away, and Juno with Queen Bess at her 
 stern threw tongue and led the van. Away, away ! for 
 the depths of the great forest, the treeless forest of the Dart. 
 Bevill's pony had stept on a sharp rock and lamed his foot, 
 
 "Whatever shall I do, Johnnie, I can't go a yard?" 
 Then up rode Anthony. 
 
 "Climb up on Vulcan, maistcr, I'll take the pony back 
 an' care for'n ef he's hurt." And Bevill was up on the 
 mighty stallion, who scarce felt aught on his saddle now. 
 Away! Indeed it was! Down wind the hart galloped 
 nearly a mile ahead. Swinging now to the east of Fox Tor, 
 he passed by " Childe's grave" and pointed for the Dart, 
 turned sharply to the left, crossed the West Dart, and made 
 for the oaks of Wistman's Wood. Here he found a young 
 
 c
 
 34 Sir Bevill 
 
 hart, whom he quickly unharboured and took his place. 
 The youngster hearing the hounds ran out of the wood in 
 full view and was chased for a mile before Craddock could 
 stop them and bring them back to their quarry. Well 
 he understood the " Wise Hart's " move, and quickly 
 stirred him from his cuckoo-nest. And now it was a 
 race indeed for life, as straight over the open moor he 
 sped on, gaining, but gaining slowly on the pack. Juno 
 ran silent as death, head straight, stern down ; she ran 
 for blood. Bess was on her flank, and the pack clamoured 
 at her heels. Ehot and Bevill galloped side by side, 
 "We shall be alone soon, Johnnie; not a soul can live 
 with us at this pace." And the great horse seemed to hear 
 him, and stretched out his long arched neck, and picked his 
 way among boulders and over pits so surely, so easily, 
 that Bevill felt like a bird passing swiftly and safely through 
 the air. The hart was gaining now at every stride, for the 
 moor was rough, and the hounds fell again and again, and 
 only three were within a hundred yards of Juno. They 
 were sinking now towards the East Dart ; would he cross it, 
 or turn west towards Cranraere Pool ? They had lost sight 
 of him now, as he passed round and behind a rocky rise ; 
 but the hounds held on, running mute. On ! — on ! — to 
 Cranmere Pool, and here they threw up their heads. 
 Bevill was alone with them, Eliot half a mile behind, 
 and the rest out of sight. The hounds were casting them- 
 selves now to the right of the pool, and owned the scent 
 for a quarter of a mile eastward, and then lost it on 
 the open moor, on the side of Okement Hill. A check 
 in the open seemed strange. Craddock would have held 
 them back on the line, but Bevill was unskilled in the 
 ways of a " wise hart." The check was of brief duration. 
 Old Nestor, who had been outpaced, seeing the leaders 
 ?top, paused with the caution that comes of age and expe-
 
 'THK HOUNIJS IIKGAN to way AM) SWIM IN AT IIIM
 
 The Riui 35 
 
 rience, and ranged wide, casting to the left. He paused, as 
 if trying to make up his great mind ; then, turning, with 
 a heavy gallop threw tongue, and led the streaming pack 
 westward across Tavy Head, and thundered down the 
 valley. Juno and Queen Bess raced him now for the lead, 
 and after running for near a mile, again overran the scent. 
 The beaten stag could not keep a Hne. Bevill alone with 
 the hounds was again at a loss what to do, when suddenly 
 he caught sight of a dark form to his right on Ami combe 
 Hill, and heard a familiar voice shouting: 
 " He has taken soil in Tavy Cleave yonder." 
 He could hardly believe his eyes. There stood the 
 Reverend William Huish, Rector of Kilkhampton, his well- 
 worn cassock tucked up round his waist, his right hand 
 extended, his face aglow with excitement, 
 
 " I tell'ee, he's taken soil, can't ee hear ? " Bevill rode 
 up to him. 
 
 " You here, Master Huish ? This is a strange meeting." 
 "To the devil with the meeting," shouted his reverence 
 in great excitement. " Man alive, go down to him yonder 
 in the river. Canst take a burnished hart ? " 
 " No, I never tried." 
 
 " Give me thy whip and dagger, and I will show thee how." 
 Eliot rode up and the three went down with the hounds 
 to the river side. The great stag was in deep water, and 
 the hounds began to bay and swim in at him. Juno was 
 in deadly peril, for already once she had come too near, 
 and the hart had struck at her with his foot and would 
 have drowned her, but that Master Huish from behind had 
 slipt a thong over his antlers and given liim sometliing else 
 to think about. Eliot was off his horse, and wading in up 
 to his arm-pits drew his hunting knife across the great 
 beast's throat, and he fell on his side. Then coming ashore 
 he blew a triple mort on his horn. In a few minutes
 
 36 Sir Bevill 
 
 Coryton was up, then Craddock and Slanning, and after 
 them such as could keep in sight of them. 
 
 *' 'Tis long past midday, and we found him before nine," 
 said Coryton. " A four hours' run, and a right noble hart. 
 What has he. Dick ? Brow bay and tray, and four a-top 
 as I live." 
 
 "Bevill Granville was first up," said Eliot. "The head 
 is his, and one that will make Sir Bernarde shout for joy. 
 Thou hast ridden like a man this day, and may well be 
 proud of thyself and the horse. There are not many in 
 Cornwall that can give the Don half a mile." 
 
 " I am a feather on Vulcan's back, John, but I will not 
 take the head. It shall go to Newton or Port Eliot. 'Tis 
 the work of those noble hounds ; but where is Tite ? " 
 
 " Here, noble sir, ready to blood thee." And in a moment 
 a great streak of hart's life-blood was drawn across his 
 forehead by the Varmint. How the little man in green 
 was found, if not at the death, within a few minutes of the 
 end, seemed a mystery to all, for they were near twenty 
 miles from Shaugh. It seemed that he had run some way, 
 then caught a half-broken colt running wild on the moor, 
 and, like an elf, had made it follow in the hunt. 
 
 Due honour was paid to the noble hart according to the 
 rules of the chase. The younger hormds were blooded. 
 To Bevill it was given to " take say " (to rip up), and then 
 to cut off the head. Every one who carried a horn joined 
 in the triple "mort" and then in a loud "recheat." And 
 lastly, the tor re-echoed with a great death whoop from 
 every throat. Nor in this did Parson Huish spare his 
 breath. The venison was loaded on a pony, and all turned, 
 led by Craddock, to find the shortest way to their quarters 
 at Shaugh. Bevill and Eliot were again side by side, and 
 with them Richard Knightly on his well-ridden, but nearly 
 exhausted, Dartmoor cob.
 
 The Run 37 
 
 " I'll een walk and lead him, Johnnie ; for i' faith he's 
 done to a turn." 
 
 " I'll take thee up behind me, Richard. Vulcan is used 
 to carry two, and Tony Payne for one of them. How now, 
 Tony ? Where do you spring from ? " 
 
 With feet almost touching the ground the great man 
 came up on a bare-backed pony, which it seemed that he 
 and the Varmint had shared for many a mile. 
 
 " I gave thy pony to a moorman and a shilling to take 
 him carefully to Shaugh. I found that in me that made 
 me unable to leave the chase. Mars' Bevill, an here I be." 
 
 So on they rode over heather and rock, by pool and 
 stream, the bright easterly breeze cooling their glowing 
 cheeks. Ah, how often, in the sad days to come, must 
 John Eliot in his London prison have looked back lovingly 
 at that glorious day ! Was it not in his mind when some 
 twenty- three years later he wrote to this faithful friend and 
 brother, dear Richard Knightly, " For others hunte, for 
 others hawke — doe it for me who cannot doe it of myselfe 
 (who by privation knowes the benefitt of exercise which 
 god appoints for the recreation of man)." * 
 
 Master Huish was walking near, and to him Eliot called : 
 
 " We have to thank you, reverend sir, for your timely 
 help to-day. My dear friend here, your parishioner, tells 
 me how you came to his assistance before I arrived on the 
 scene. And 'twas no small skill you showed in casting the 
 thong over the hart's antlers. You saved our dogs from 
 danger and enal;led me to approach the deer in safety. 
 Accept my hearty thanks." 
 
 " Nay, sir, there would be shame on me if I knew not 
 how to noose a stag, for my early life was spent at Porlock 
 on the Exemoor, and many a royal stag have I there 
 helped to kill in my day." 
 
 * Tower X Jany 1G30. (Sir J. E.'s letter-book.)
 
 38 Sir Bevill 
 
 " May I ask," said Eliot, " whither you are bound ? One 
 does not often meet a parson walking across the heart of 
 the forest." 
 
 '' I am on my way, good sir, to see a friend, one Master 
 Moyle, of Bake in the Parish of St, Germans, a good neigh- 
 bour and friend of his worship, your honour's noble 
 father." 
 
 " You will hardly reach Bake to-night, my friend. You 
 must even be content to stay with us at Shaugh. We can 
 find a lodge for the night and such provender as we have, if 
 you will bear with the company of a pack of boys. We are 
 not altogether graceless," he added with a smile, "though 
 perchance we may not all be the quietest mice. But it will 
 be for our good to have you with us. For has not Master 
 Francis Bacon writ that, ' It is good to compound employ- 
 ments of both — that is youth and age — that young men 
 may be learners while men in age are actors.' So will we 
 gladly learn from you who have acted so skilfully and 
 instructed us so well to-day in the field." 
 
 " Truly said, good sir, but hath not Master Bacon also 
 remarked that, ' Men of age object too much and adventure 
 too Uttle,' so perchance may I be a restraint on your mirth ; 
 you thinking that I shall object to that mirth, and adven- 
 ture too little to help you to sustain it ? " 
 
 " We shall be friends, I see, not only from the telHng of 
 my dear companion here, but from your own speeches, 
 which show so clearly your love and honour to the same 
 great man, at whose shrine I am tempted to worship." 
 
 WilUam Huish, Master of Arts, and Rector of Kilkhamp- 
 ton, was at this time a man of about fifty-seven years of 
 age, and presented the appearance of a scholar, but not a 
 recluse. He had not a little to do with the forming of 
 Bevill Granville's character, and Bevill had learned to 
 honour and love the somewhat pedantic Rector. He was
 
 The Run 39 
 
 tall and dark, with a lock of iron-grey hair hung across his 
 forehead ; he wore his own hair, which fell over his 
 shoulders and was tied in a knot behind ; his beard was 
 long, but very far from thick, and his moustache fell over a 
 somewhat ungainly mouth. WilUam Huish was not a 
 handsome man, but there was something attractive and 
 scholarly in his appearance, as he sat that evening beside 
 Eliot at the board and entertained his host with many a 
 tale of Dunkery Beacon and Cloutsham, of Minehead and 
 Porlock Wear, of smugglers and pirates, both English and 
 Spaniard, that harried the coast. 
 
 Tite claimed and was given his bottle of wine, of which 
 Anthony's capacious gullet enjoyed the lion's share, and 
 saved the little man from the perils of excess. The evening 
 passed merrily and without the curse of insobriety, for if 
 Eliot was profuse in his hospitality, he had also that power, 
 given to a few, to make virtue acceptable, and, as he led, 
 so others followed in a self-restraint which was by no means 
 a characteristic of the youth of his day. This behaviour, 
 moreover, was well suited to the mind of Bevill Granville 
 as well as to Slanning and Richard Knightly, all three, 
 both then and in after hfe, of strict morality. One of the 
 party touched the lute with no little skill, and many a 
 hunting song and chorus enlivened the pvening. Eliot 
 gave Ben Jonson's song to Diana : 
 
 " Queen and huntress chaste and fair 
 Now the sun is laid to sleep 
 Seated in thy silver chair 
 State in wonted manner keep. 
 Hesperus entreats thy lij^'ht 
 Goddess excellently bright. 
 
 '• Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 
 
 And thy crystal-shining quiver ; 
 Give unto the flying hart 
 
 Space to breathe how short soever ;
 
 40 Sir Bevill 
 
 Thou that mak'st a day of night 
 Goddess excellently bright." 
 
 "More than we did to-day," quoth Will Coryton, "if 
 Diana was wi ing Juno declined to give him breathing 
 time. Shall I give you a song ? " And forthwith he trolled 
 out a well-known local hunting ditty. 
 
 " Master Huish hath a rare voice," said Bevill. " Prythee 
 sing us a song, Master Huish." 
 
 " Wilt have one writ by a holy Bishop some fifty years 
 ago, for I think he must have composed it before he was 
 Bishop of Bath and Wells ? " 
 
 "The Bishop's song, the Bishop's song," was the cry 
 from all. And in a deep mellow voice the Rector of 
 Kilkhampton rolled out this strange ditty. Doubly strange 
 as coming from a Bishop : 
 
 "I cannot eat but little meat, 
 
 My stomach is not good ; 
 But sure I think that I can drink 
 
 With him that wears a hood. 
 Though I go bare, take ye no care, 
 
 I nothing am a-cold. 
 I stuff my skin so full within 
 
 Of jolly good ale and old. 
 
 " Back and side go bare, go bare, 
 Both foot and hand go cold. 
 But belly, God send thee good ale enough. 
 Whether it be new or old." 
 
 He gave the three stanzas of Bishop Still's " Jolly Good 
 Ale and Old." This Bishop, who is recorded to have been 
 both pious and learned, probably wrote the song in his 
 salad days when he composed the old play called " Gammer 
 Gurton's Needle." 
 
 Applause that made the glasses ring showed how highly 
 the parson's song was appreciated.
 
 The Run 41 
 
 " Thou hast had a long walk, Master Huish," said Eliot, 
 " and hast many a mile now betwixt thee and St. Germans ; 
 let me find thee a pony to carry thee there. Thou canst 
 leave it here on thy homeward journey." 
 
 " Nay, good sir, I love to go on my own legs. I do not 
 tire easily though I have nearly reached my sixtieth year. 
 I shall rest awhile with my friend, whom I once tutored as 
 a lad and whom I love well. I shall away early in the 
 morning, so I will pay the reckoning to mine host and betake 
 me to bed." 
 
 " There is no reckoning here. Master Huish," returned 
 EUot. " It is a pleasure to be permitted to entertain my 
 friends, and I am right glad to be able to number thee 
 among them. We shall see thee at St. Germans on Sunday, 
 and, if thou canst preach as well as thou canst sing, the 
 profit and the debt will lie on our side." 
 
 " Nay, but Master Eliot, honoured sir, this must not be 
 all laid on thy shoulders. You say it must, or I shall give 
 offence ! Well, sir, then accept my thanks, and permit me 
 to retire." 
 
 Hearty greetings and many thanks for his serviceable 
 help as well as his song followed him to the door. 
 
 " He will be close to us at Port Eliot. My father must 
 bid him and Master Moyle come over and sup with us one 
 day. 'Tis bare two miles away from us to Bake. I only 
 hope that Master Moyle will not concern himself too busily 
 with my affairs. 'Twas not many months agone that he 
 took upon himself to read me a lecture. No doubt he 
 meant it kindly, for he is a good sort of a man, but you see, 
 Bevill, one does not always care to be lectured by a man 
 whose only right to do so consists in his having spent or 
 mis-spent a few more years than oneself ! " 
 
 "There I am not quite with thee, John. If a man — 
 whosoever he be, Colin Clout or Noble — offers advice, 'tis
 
 42 Sir Bevill 
 
 his offering, and shows his esteem ; he gives perchance the 
 best he has, and if it be good, one can gain some profit by't, 
 and if it be worthless, one can but pity the emptiness of 
 the giver, whose best is barren." 
 
 "Thou art a philosopher, Bevill; since when this 
 learning ? " 
 
 " No, John, there is no philosophy in me. I try only to 
 take men and things as I find them, and make the best of 
 them." 
 
 "That is a saint's saying rather than philosophy. So 
 let's to bed. We will fly the hawk to-morrow. And if 
 good Moyle proceeds again to my correction I will endeavour 
 to turn to him the other cheek."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THF, WOUNDING OF MR. MOYLE 
 
 ELIOT was somewhat disconcerted on his return to Port 
 Ehot at finding his father returned. He had not ex- 
 pected him till the following week. It was true that his 
 father allowed him to do very much as he pleased and treated 
 him with a rare liberality, but on this occasion he was well 
 aware that he had exceeded any former sporting expedi- 
 tion, both in scope and expense, and had taken upon him- 
 self to make use to the full extent of his father's resources 
 both of kitchen, cellar and stable. But even so, the 
 affectionate terms on which he hved with his father pre- 
 vented his feeling any serious misgiving at his parent's 
 criticism of his acts. He was therefore considerably 
 annoyed at the coldness with which Mr. Eliot received him 
 and his two friends Bevill and Richard Knightly. The 
 good Squire hardly vouchsafed them a word, bade his 
 servants provide them with supper, and retired to his own 
 room to appear no more that evening. 
 
 " There is some mischief in the wind, Bevill lad. To- 
 morrow is Sunday, and we will keep it restfully, but before 
 Monday is over I will know what has happened to darken 
 my father's brow and cause him to treat you and Richard 
 with such scant courtesy." 
 
 "Probably," said Richard Knightly, " it is just because 
 we have come unexpectedly and without his worship's own 
 invitation."
 
 44 ^^^ Bevill 
 
 " That can hardly be," said Bevill. " You and I have 
 turned in here too often uninvited to make our appearance 
 strange. Mr. Eliot too would never hesitate to bless us 
 with his company were he within reach of Stowe. He is 
 the soul of hospitality. I think with John that there is 
 some cause of which we have no knowledge." 
 
 At this moment Anthony came in to ask if his master 
 had any commands before he went to bed. Taking his 
 master aside he said in a low tone : 
 
 " There is a whisper, sir, that the good Squire is not well 
 pleased. We brought the great hart's head into the yard 
 together with a haunch — such a haunch, Mars' Bevill, 
 'twould make a full man hungry just to see it ! And the 
 Squire hardly gave it a second look. ' Umph ! ' he said, 
 ' the house is full of venison.' ' Not such as this,' I could 
 not help venturing, and he out with, ' Speak when your 
 opinion's asked, man.' Sooth, he never spake to me like 
 that before. Then Tom quoth, ' He's angered like enough, 
 I'll know the reason why.' " 
 
 " Well," said Bevill, " what did he find out ? " 
 
 "Only this, master, that yesterday two gentlemen were 
 here in the morning and stayed to dine with the Squire, 
 and Will, who was serving, heard him say, ' Did he indeed ? 
 The extravagant young dog ! ' And he looked greatly dis- 
 pleased. And one of the two, who was Master Moyle, re- 
 marked that it was a serious matter, for 'twas not the first 
 time, and that he had himself spoken to young John there- 
 on before now." 
 
 Anthony in relating this had raised his voice, and Bevill 
 was vexed to find John Eliot standing by wil^h heightened 
 colour and an angry look in his eyes. 
 
 "So he is at his mischief -making again. I tell you, 
 Bevill, I will not stand this, he shall answer for his words. 
 We will go over and see this matter through on Mon-
 
 TJie JVottndiiig of Mr. Moyle 45 
 
 day. I will teach him to come between my father and 
 me. 
 
 Sunday was not as happy a day to the lads as they had 
 expected, but such was the serious spirit of this household 
 and so self-restrained were the friends of John Eliot that a 
 look of vexation on the countenance of Mr. EUot, and a 
 gloom almost amounting to moroseness on that of his son, 
 were the only signs of the strife that was going on within ; 
 while a solemn shyness betrayed the consciousness of his 
 two boy-friends that something was amiss. 
 
 Master Huish preached his best on that Sunday after- 
 noon, but his twelve points, skilfully handled, on the diverse 
 taking of the word Faith, and the superiority of the theo- 
 logical virtue of Love, as a Divine gift, fell on ears that 
 listened, but on understandings that were otherwise 
 engaged. Good Master Huish greeted the party outside 
 the church and, with the Vicar, was invited to come into the 
 house, which they did, but Mr. Moyle had walked home 
 with his wife. The three lads spoke a few commonplace 
 words of greeting to Mr. Huish and then left him with Mr. 
 Eliot. The Vicar too was called away to visit a man taken 
 with a sudden sickness. 
 
 " I am well pleased, sir," said Master Huish, " to have a 
 few words with you in private. Two days since my friend 
 Mr. Moyle repeated to you that which I had confided to 
 him, little thinking that it would cause annoyance to you, 
 and, as I perceive, sadness to your son. I am vexed at my 
 want of discretion." 
 
 "Nay, nay, good Master Huish. It is well for me to 
 know all. I gathered from what was told me that there 
 was more behind, and now I pray thcc, let me know the 
 whole truth, and the worst, if there be worse tlian what I 
 have already heard. Prodigal expense 1 Feasting and 
 drinking ! A great company, and all things lavishly done
 
 46 Sir Bevill 
 
 by my boy. To tell truth I mind not so much the expense 
 as that he should have the name of a spendthrift, a 
 drunkard, and a reveller," 
 
 " Stay, worthy sir, stay, I beseech you. Company there 
 was. Mr. Coryton and Mr. Arundel, with a Mr. Slanning 
 and another, Trevanion I think, were there. A goodly 
 company of youths such as one rarely sees, but no 
 drunkenness. No, sir ! No unseemly revelry. Nay, I 
 will go further, and say, without fear of contradiction, that 
 a more amiable, intelUgent, and carefully behaved set of 
 young men seldom have met together. The converse was 
 as charming as it was chaste, not a rude nor vulgar word 
 was spoken — save one perhaps by myself." He paused. 
 
 " By yourself, reverend sir ? " said the Squire with an 
 astonished look. 
 
 " I crave your pardon if I was wrong ; I sang as I was 
 requested some verses written by one whom I know, good 
 Bishop Still, on ' Old Ale and Good,' and " 
 
 "Ha, ha! Yes, that all, good friend? I have some 
 acquaintance with the good old man and have cast up at 
 him before now some of his early writings. That all ! Ha, 
 ha ! ' Belly, God send thee good ale enough.' If that 
 was the worst word, you would not have frightened a bevy 
 of maidens. Have some good old ale after thy sermon, good 
 friend, an excellent sermon i' faith, and true every word of 
 it. and deserves good ale. What ho ! without ; a flagon of 
 good old ale for Master Huish and me. ' Belly, God send 
 thee good ale enough ! ' Ha, ha ! Master Huish, I mind not 
 the expense. He did it well, did he not ? He is my own 
 brave boy an I love him. I feared he had been drinking 
 wildly with that Will Coryton who loveth his glass ; but 
 you say they none exceeded. Well, well, good man, I 
 thank thee. Gad, here's the ale. fill thy belly, man, it won't 
 hurt thee."
 
 The IFounding of Mr. Moyle 47 
 
 Master Huish took his way to Bake with a mind more at 
 ease than had been the case with that part of his being for 
 many hours, and not a Httle soothed in body by the good 
 old ale. That evening he had no opportunity of private 
 converse \\ith his host, who perhaps was glad to avoid the 
 subject of John Eliot after remarking the threatening 
 scowl to which that young gentleman had treated him. 
 
 On the following morning Master Huish took an early 
 breakfast and then his leave, and had scarce left the 
 grounds when a thundering knock at the hall door of Bake 
 House announced the arrival of an impatient visitor. John 
 Eliot could not sleep that Sunday night ; he had wandered 
 about till late, and gone to bed without seeing his father. 
 That father's manner to his guests had altered entirely, 
 and they spent the evening with him exceeding pleasantly. 
 John's door was closed and fastened, and they forebore to 
 disturb him. Early in the morning Bevill and Knightly 
 were roused by him and bidden to come out. They found 
 him fuming up and down the garden walk, and were asked 
 to accompany him to Bake. On the way Bevill attempted 
 again and again to call his attention to the change that 
 had come over his father, but his words only added fuel to 
 the fire. 
 
 " My father kind ? Of course he is ; the kindest of men ; 
 courteous to thee and Richard. Why not ? 'Twas only 
 when that dog's words were rankling in his ears that he 
 was soured. I will sour him. He shall eat his own dirty 
 words, or I will ram them down his ugly throat." And so 
 he fanned the fire, so he wound up the wratiiful engine 
 within till he reached the outer gate, and bade his friends 
 remain outside while he went in alone. The door was 
 opened by Mr. Moyle in person, who ushered his visitor 
 into his library and bade him be seated. 
 
 " No, sir, I will not sit in your house. I have come to
 
 48 Sir Bevill 
 
 demand from you by what right you have dared to go to 
 my father with tales about me and my doings ? " 
 
 " Sir, whatever I have said to your good father I have 
 said in good faith out of my sincere affection for him, 
 and to save him, if I may, from further trouble on your 
 account." 
 
 " On my account ? You amaze me, sir. On my account ? 
 Because forsooth I happened to have entertained a friend 
 of yours, unknown before to me, am I to be accused by you 
 of wanton extravagance ? Pray you, what else did you 
 lay to m.y charge ? Carousing ? Drinking ? Unseemly 
 behaviour before a clergyman ? Give me your list of my 
 offences, I pray. All that you have been pleased to rake 
 up or invent on my account." 
 
 " Invent, sir ? You must take back that word." 
 
 " I take back nothing, you — you — intruding, lying rascal ! 
 Coming between my father and me with your falsehoods 
 and your sham piety, and pretended interest in my father's 
 welfare. I give you the lie in your throat for a scurvy 
 knave. Draw your sword, if you have one, and defend 
 yourself." 
 
 Eliot's blood was hot ; he was very young. He had 
 worked himself up to white heat at the idea of his father 
 being estranged from him by Moyle's stories. A sorry 
 recompense for entertaining the man's friend. Moyle put 
 his right hand to his side where his sword should have been 
 and was not, and the lad drawing his, half blinded with 
 passion, made a thrust, which entered Moyle's side, and 
 glancing from his rib, passed through his doublet, and a 
 stream of blood gushed from the wound. 
 
 Moyle looked up helplessly at his youthful adversary. 
 He was a gentleman, and a very gentle person ; the sight of 
 his own blood upset him, and he fell fainting into a chair. 
 Eliot, quick to resent an injury, was equally quick to
 
 The IVoitnding of Mr. Moyle 49 
 
 repent of a fault. He was horrified. He had slain an 
 unarmed man, CalUng loudly for help, he ran to the door. 
 Servants entered, and at the same time Bevill and Richard 
 Knightly came into the hall. All was confusion for a 
 moment. Bevill came to the wounded man, tore back his 
 doublet and examined the wound. It was clearly only a 
 flesh wound, and not dangerous ; he asked for a scarf, and 
 bound it closely round the ribs, while Eliot and Knightly 
 ran in haste for a surgeon. Bevill remained to see the 
 wound properly dressed, Mr. Moyle safely put to bed, and 
 departed with abundance of thanks from Mistress Moyle. 
 He found John EUot with his father, full of regrets and 
 shame at what he had done. 
 
 "I should not have cared so much, father," he was 
 saying, " if he had drawn, but I was a bUnd fool. I thouglit 
 he had his sword, and now I have killed him. I shall not 
 grieve to pay the penalty with my life." 
 
 "You will not be called upon for that, Johnnie," said 
 Bevill as he entered the room ; " he is doing well. The 
 surgeon says 'tis only a little blood let and he will be well 
 in a month," 
 
 "You fooUsh boy," said his father; "it was just all a 
 mistake. I was angered because I thought from what was 
 said that there was more behind, and that you had acted 
 shamefully and with excess. Good Master Huish has told 
 me all, and that the conduct and conversation of all was 
 above reproach. I care not for the expense. Only lad, 
 another time — another time, lad — trust your father, and 
 take him into your confidence ; you will never regret it," 
 
 That no lasting injury resulted is proved from the fact 
 that Mr. Moyle was entirely reconciled to him in after 
 years, and no person in his time held him in higlicr esteem. 
 The historical " Apologie " which Eliot wrote was witnessed 
 by Bevill Granville and William Coryton. It was worded
 
 50 Sir Bevill 
 
 thus : " Mr. Moyle, I do acknowledge I have done you a 
 great injury, which I wish I had never done, and do desire 
 you to remit it ; and I desire that all unkindness may 
 be forgiven and forgotten betwixt us, and henceforward I 
 shall desire and deserve your love in all friendly offices, as I 
 hope you will mine."
 
 PART II 
 THE WITCH HUNT 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 eliot's encounter with the gypsies 
 
 AT Madford, in the parish of Heavitree, close to Exeter, 
 Hved Bevill's great-uncle by marriage, Sir George 
 Smith, a merchant of renown. Thrice had he been 
 chosen Mayor of Exeter, and had moreover served his county 
 as Sheriff of Exeter, and as High Sheriff of Devon. 
 
 His residence, Madford, was a moderate-sized Elizabethan 
 house, lying snugly with its gardens among tall trees in the 
 fair valley of the Exe. Smooth and soft as velvet were 
 the lawns on the rich red land. Flowers grew and bloomed 
 around the house and against it ; over each building near, 
 great or small, the climbing roses threw their prodigal 
 branches, spread colour throughout, and filled the air with 
 perfume. A very paradise of flowers was the garden. 
 Beyond the lawns the deep-fleshcd Devon kine, with their 
 soft eyes and deer-like heads, browsed knee-dccp in the 
 rich pasture. Everything without spoke of luxuriant 
 abundance. And within the wealthy merchant had brought 
 together from distant lands treasures of beauty. Silks 
 from India, carpets from Constantinople ; Italian statues 
 and Moorish carving decorated passage and staircase, as
 
 52 Sir B evil I 
 
 well as the great withdrawing room, and my lady's 
 parlour. But in that house of beauty nothing could com- 
 pare with the form and face of one slight fair girl who sat 
 by her mother's side. We read of children in past cen- 
 turies treating their parents with stiff and studied courtesy, 
 and doubtless there were many such in the days of King 
 James. But not such was Grace Smith with her mother. 
 They were alike, and yet not alike, both tall and fair ; on 
 both the hair hung low on their deep broad foreheads, con- 
 cealing at the first sight the intellectual capacity both of 
 mother and daughter. But not in fair complexion, not in 
 the beauty of form and feature, not even in the evidenced 
 intellectual power, lay the charm of young Grace's face ; 
 rather was it to be sought and found in a tender expression 
 of loving sympathy which shone in eyes and lips as she 
 stopped from her work to caress her darling mother, the 
 friend and companion of her life, as well as her instructress. 
 The mother was a stately personage, the daughter a winning 
 child. In society a deep reserve characterised both Lady 
 Smith and her daughter Grace, so that many of the citizens 
 of Exeter voted them proud and difficult to entertain, but 
 in the home they were the life and joy of the house. 
 
 It was early summer, some years after the memorable 
 day on Dartmoor. The gardens were at their height of 
 beauty and luxuriance. Sir George came home to his 
 dirmer, bringing with him John Eliot, who was passing 
 through Exeter to Port EHot after his work in Parliament. 
 The friendship, which had long existed between Mr. Richard 
 Eliot, of Port Eliot, and Sir George Smith, made the visit 
 of his son John most acceptable and agreeable to all at 
 Madford. 
 
 Never till now had Grace met with any man who at once 
 claimed her attention and interest, one whose mind so 
 greatly attracted hers, and whose conversation drew out
 
 Eliot 's Encounter with the Gypsies 53 
 
 and seemed to spiritualise all that was best and noblest in 
 her character. The meal was over and Eliot asked of 
 Grace the favour that she would show him over her 
 gardens. He had travelled in France and Northern Italy. 
 Like the bee — to use his own simile — he had extracted 
 sweetness from every nook and corner where he had 
 sojourned — even from " the bitterest herbs." His delight 
 in the Madford flowers was unbotmded, yet ever tinged 
 with shades of prophetic melancholy which would come 
 over him in times of serenest joy; he could not forbear, as 
 he bent his face to a rich red rose coining into bloom, from 
 quoting to her young George Herbert's hues : 
 
 " Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave. 
 Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; 
 Thy root is ever in its grave. 
 And thou must die." 
 
 She turned her soft sweet eyes on him and murmured, 
 continuing the sonnet : 
 
 " Only a sweet and virtuous soul 
 Like season'd timber never gives, 
 But though the whole world turn to coal 
 Then chiefly lives." 
 
 " And you. Master Eliot, have no doubt learned in travel 
 many enduring lessons which will help to make you hve. I 
 gathered from words that you spoke to my father that you 
 interest yourself deeply in the welfare of your country." 
 
 "Truly, Mistress Grace, your mind jumps with your 
 countenance. You follow quick on word and thought ! " 
 
 " Nay, I did not come among my flowers for compli- 
 ments — they sure should humble the proudest — but to 
 learn." 
 
 "Would that I could teach you! Still I came not now 
 only to look at and lose my heart to flowers, but to ask
 
 54 Sir Bevill 
 
 after one that we both love dearly, your cousin Bevill 
 Granville, friend of my heart. He has often spoken to me 
 of his respect for you. Is he well ? Know you if he is at 
 Stowe ? " 
 
 "He is at Oxford, or just about to leave it. I am so 
 glad to know one that is my dear cousin's friend. For 
 know you, he is a boon companion, is sweet Master 
 Bevill." 
 
 " You may say that in truth of him, fair lady, for he is 
 the sweetest-tempered, sweetest-minded man I know. His 
 heart and hand are ever open, his mind is like an open 
 book for friends to read, and to find never a blot. He is a 
 lad, too, who makes religion beautiful, and, if I may so 
 speak, wholesome to others. I try humbly to imitate him, 
 for is not ' imitation the moral mistress of our life ? ' And 
 to imitate that which is worthy is to run the road to worth. 
 But we came not out for sermons, dear lady, but for flowers, 
 and I fear I must away." 
 
 " We are going this evening up the river," said Grace 
 timidly ; and then, as if half ashamed of even hinting at 
 giving him an invitation, she added, " you will find my 
 father in his study, and my mother will be in her parlour." 
 
 He took her hand and raised it reverently to his lips. 
 Grace sought her mother, and Eliot the Knight, 
 
 " Mother, he is a true and very noble gentleman, and 
 speaks so beautifully of Cousin Bevill. I love to hear him. 
 Couldst not persuade him t» stay and go with us to-night ? 
 Father would surely be pleased to have him in his barge 
 this Whitsuntide." 
 
 Monday in Whitsun week fell early in June, and the 
 good citizens of Exeter were keeping holiday merrily. Sir 
 George joined heartily in the preparations for an illumina- 
 tion on the river, to which all the young people were look- 
 ing forward with high expectation ; and, for the matter of
 
 Eliot 's EjicoiDiter with the Gypsies 55 
 
 that, their elders too were not a little excited at the pro- 
 spect. The moon wanted but three days of full, and if she 
 somewhat eclipsed the Hght of the torches, she certainly 
 made it easier for the more staid citizens to join in the 
 revelry. 
 
 Sir George came into his lady's parlour with John Eliot, 
 and exclaimed to his wife : 
 
 " See here, my lady, I have prevailed on Master Eliot 
 to stay the night with us, and accompany our party on the 
 river. I warrant we bring him back hungry to supper, but 
 as 'twill be midnight nearly before we return thou wilt 
 have a possett ready with muscadel, and rosemary and 
 cakes for us before we start. Shall we not, Grace ? Ah, 
 little one, who is to be thy cavalier to-night, seeing that 
 Cousin Bevill is not with us this year ? " 
 
 " Fair lady," said Eliot, " if I may presume on our brief 
 acquaintance I would gladly offer my services in the stead 
 of my friend." 
 
 It was past nine before they left the house and took their 
 way to the river bank. A curious and very beautiful sight 
 met their eyes as they descended the hill. The city 
 appeared to be almost empty. Below them the waters of 
 the Exe were literally covered with light. Boats of every 
 size and shape, and some of no shape at all, gleamed with 
 torches and lanthorns. Great barges were lit up from end 
 to end. Fantastic figures appeared on them walking, 
 dancing, tumbling up and down the decks. As they reached 
 the bank they found it lined with booths, alive with the 
 sellers of sweetmeats and cakes, toys, pajier fire-balloons, 
 and all kinds of wares to tempt the young, the hungry, and 
 the enterprising. The Mayor of Exeter was just entering 
 his barge, clothed in civic grandeur, surrounded by his 
 officials and many of the councillors. 
 
 Sir George had his own barge for his friends and himself.
 
 56 Sir Bcvill 
 
 His daughter Elizabeth had come over from Potheridge 
 with her husband, Sir Thomas Monk, and had found her 
 Uttle boy George with Lady Smith. Some three or four of 
 Sir George's friends had also come at his invitation. Just 
 as they were pushing off the barge, a lad rushed down to 
 the river side and hailed Sir George. 
 
 "Canst make room for me. Uncle George?" It was 
 Richard Granville who appeared on the bank. They paused 
 to take him on board. Eliot felt a start and a pressure 
 from Grace's hand as he was leading her to a seat. 
 
 " Richard is young to come like this by himself," said 
 Ehot. 
 
 "Faith, Master Richard does pretty much what it 
 pleaseth him to do. I would he had not come this night, 
 for his presence foretells mischief ! " 
 
 " Hast neither word nor kiss for me, cousin ? " he cried 
 coming to Grace after he had saluted his uncle and aunt, 
 told little George that he ought to be in bed, and sworn at 
 the man with the pole (who had shoved off the barge) for 
 soiling his doublet. " Your humble servant, Master Eliot ; 
 methought you were by this time at Trebursey. Hey, she 
 can wait ? Hey, nonny no ! Marvellous pretty sight this. 
 I would have gone up to London for to-day, but that I 
 love not the plague, and my good father would not hear of 
 it. So I e'en borrowed one of Bevill's horses and came 
 here. Master Bevill is up to his eyes in his books, Mistress 
 Grace, and thinks more about the goddesses of old than 
 the divinity of Madford. Hey mistress ! Art blushing ? " 
 Then he was off to interfere with the oarsmen, and to set 
 as many as possible by the ears. 
 
 "And he is Bevill's brother," quoth Eliot. 
 " Yes, he is a tiresome boy," said Grace. "But he can 
 be very pleasant when he likes ; he does not know fear, and 
 is marvellously quick at many things. Bevill is so good and
 
 Eliot 5 Encottnter with the Gypsies 57 
 
 forbearing with him. I often fear that he will do himself 
 or others a serious mischief." 
 
 The procession had now been formed. And a strange 
 mixture it was. All kinds of aquatic conveyances were 
 pressed into service and adorned with flags, all were lit up, 
 and on many of them clowns and harlequins capered 
 and mocked each other. Why none were swamped and 
 many drowned seemed a marvel to some of the lookers-on. 
 But all were merry, the water was alive with Hght. Glees 
 and madrigals, now from one barge, now from another, 
 sounded strangely beautiful as the voices came over the 
 water. Eliot sat by Grace near to the prow of the barge. 
 
 " 'Tis Merrie England here with a vengeance," said he. 
 " When I was in France some told me that the mirth had 
 died out of our land. It seems not so. These Puritans 
 may be good men, I doubt it not, but sure God gives us 
 bodies as well as souls, and He would have us use them in 
 activity and in mirth as long as we abuse them not in 
 either. A dour solemn face hides not always a God-fearing 
 heart." 
 
 The procession had passed beyond the city to the 
 meadows above. Here was a bonfire built, and many a 
 discharge of unshotted cannon. A great number of the 
 barges now put ashore. There was dancing round the bon- 
 fire. Stalls made of boughs of trees had been erected, and 
 women sold cakes and ale. Others told fortunes or per- 
 formed tricks. There were bear-wardens with their 
 dancing bears, and children on stilts, fortune-tellers, and 
 rogues of all ages. 
 
 Richard was clamouring now to land and help burn 
 the bonfire. His uncle must give him money to buy cakes. 
 So to please him they put in to the bank and all left the 
 barge. 
 
 Here .the crowd of country folk from the surrounding
 
 58 Sir Bevill 
 
 villages grew every moment thicker. Mountebanks and 
 jesters, gipsy jackman and the "hocus-pocus" conjuror 
 were there plying their trades, honest and dishonest ; Irish 
 beggars with uncleanly rags, old soldiers in tattered 
 uniforms, dommerers who feigned to be mutes but could 
 swear fast enough when oaths would serve their turn, men 
 without ears and men with slit noses mingled with honest 
 farmers and their wives and maidens, and did their best to 
 extract the slow penny and still slower shilling from 
 " Master Clod " or Farmer Adam. Still this was not hke an 
 " up-country " fair. Here the sober substantial farmer and 
 tradesman, hind and yeoman, prentice lad and master man 
 were in the ascendant, and the knaves had to be careful that 
 their wit did not break out into rankness nor their roguery 
 claim too open attention. 
 
 Richard led the party, shouting to them to come on 
 and see the fun. Young George Monk cried to his 
 mother to bring him to the big fire, and she, who saw 
 so little of her darling beautiful boy, was fain to indulge his 
 every whim ; so holding one hand while Sir Thomas took 
 the other, they followed in the wake of Richard into the 
 crowd. Just behind Lady Monk came Grace with John 
 EUot and Lady Smith, the Knight followed with the rest, 
 and behind him six stout serving-men with cudgels 
 brought up the rear. Richard, bent on mischief and never 
 pausing to consider whether his project were ill-natured 
 or even dangerous, in an unlucky moment turned and 
 looked at Sir Thomas holding his Uttle boy's hand. A 
 thought struck him. The good Knight of Potheridge was 
 known to be head over ears in debt. 'Twould be rare 
 sport to give him a fright ! So Richard mingled with the 
 crowd. 
 
 " See yonder," he said to a long-legged youth who was 
 looking hungrily at a stall of cakes, " look ye there at that
 
 Eliot's Encounter witJi the Gypsies 59 
 
 worshipful Knight, Here is a silver groat, it shall be 
 thine an thou'lt do as I bid thee." 
 
 " I am your man," said the lad. 
 
 " Go behind him, lay thy hand on his shoulder and say 
 only these six words, ' Thomas Monk. In the King's name.' 
 Then turn an mix with the crowd. He cannot draw on 
 thee, for he holds his child with his right hand ; say it aloud 
 and the groat is thine, 'tis but a jest." 
 
 The lad took the coin and did as he was bidden. It was 
 a jest and something more. The lad earned his groat, 
 the men around Sir Thomas turned and stared at him. 
 The Knight let go his child's hand and drew his sword. 
 There was a scream from women ; one from behind seized 
 Sir Thomas's sword arm. Thinking he was arrested, 
 he snatched his arm away and made for the river, 
 flourishing his sword and calling to Sir George to take 
 him on board his barge. Lady Monk and her boy 
 followed him, but in the crowd Grace and Eliot were sepa- 
 rated from the rest. When at length they gained the bank 
 the barge was nowhere to be seen ; for in his fear of arrest 
 Sir Thomas had begged the men to put out the lights. 
 
 "We shall have to walk home, Mistress Grace," said 
 Eliot. Accordingly they made their way to the path which 
 led, as they thought, to the main road, and walked along it 
 for some distance as fast as they were able. A house in the 
 distance showed a single light in one window, and to this 
 they made their way, but no one was about, and, as far 
 as they could ascertain, no one within. Eliot was unac- 
 quainted with the neighbourhood, and Grace in the 
 moonlight failed to recognise the place. It was clear to 
 them that the owners had gone to Exeter, leaving the 
 servants in charge, who had locked the house and made 
 their way down to the river side to see the fun. In 
 reaching this house by a field path they had completely
 
 6o Sir Bevill 
 
 lost their way, and could only guess the direction in which 
 Exeter lay. The house opened on a narrow lane with steep, 
 red, fern-clad banks, and along this Eliot led the girl, who, 
 if her heart were trembling, showed no outward sign of fear. 
 
 "Dost think we can be far from the city, Master 
 Eliot ? " 
 
 " I can hardly think so, but speak soft. At such a time 
 we cannot be too careful nor too quiet." 
 
 A fair or a revel of any kind would bring together, so 
 Eliot well knew, quite a crowd of the ruffians who prey 
 upon others for their livelihood. It was not so many years 
 since that it had been feared that the gypsy gangs alone 
 would have defied all the constables and Justices of the 
 Peace in England, and it was of common knowledge that 
 the country was infested with beggars, " upright men " and 
 cut-purses of many descriptions. So that while he gave to 
 Grace his left hand, EUot's right was on the hilt of his 
 sword. How he longed for a couple of the half-dozen stout 
 serving-men that had followed Sir George that evening 
 from his house, each armed with an oaken staff. They 
 were passing a small plantation now and the lane broadened 
 out. EHot noted black patches in the waste by the road- 
 side which told of the fires of a gypsy camp. That any 
 camp they passed might be empty he devoutly prayed. 
 Yes — just at the bend before them the moon shone on the 
 dusky awning of a gypsy hovel. He paused, drew Grace 
 into the shadow and stopped to listen. All was silent, 
 then a growl and a whine from a fastened cur. Grace 
 shuddered. 
 
 " The tent is empty, they have tied in their dog." Her 
 hand tightened on his, and they moved on as swiftly as 
 the rough road would permit. 
 
 " We have passed the worst, dear child, and sure those 
 are the hghts of the city in front of us."
 
 Eliofs Encotmter with the Gypsies 6i 
 
 He had hardly spoken when a clatter of footsteps 
 sounded from the other side of the bank, and three men 
 clambered over it into the lane behind them, and close to 
 the tent. The dog from within gave a cheerful bark of 
 welcome. 
 
 " Hist, Blackie, hist ! " they heard a man cry. " Didst 
 not catch sight of a dell's kirtle passing round the corner 
 yon ? " 
 
 An oath as of a half-drunken reveller was the reply. 
 Eliot hastened the girl to a run — pattering footsteps of 
 more than one sounded behind them in the lane. 
 
 " Run, child, run straight on, I see a cottage, shelter if 
 thou canst, I will stop these gentlemen." Grace ran a few 
 steps as bidden, and then halted. No — she would not leave 
 her friend. Calling up all her courage she stooped down 
 and picked up the largest stone she could find to hand, and 
 walked back towards Eliot. The moon shone on two 
 strapping rogues who were running at her friend. His 
 weapon was out and gleamed in the moonhght. The men 
 paused, and one turned and shouted, " Blackie, Blackie, 
 come on, or let loose the tyke if thou beest too drunk to 
 fight thysel." 
 
 " What dost want with me, man ? " asked Eliot in a 
 quiet voice. 
 
 "Want, fair sir?" replied the nearer man, who was 
 evidently one who had seen better days. " Want ? Why 
 everything. Thy money and thy clothes. We will treat 
 thee well and leave thee a bit of a sheet to walk home 
 decently with thy dell. Perchance the lady too can spare 
 a trifle of her wardrobe, unless she prefers to stay with us 
 and join our gallant free company." 
 
 The two men made for Eliot at once without another 
 word, evidently old hands at robbery, and thought to over- 
 bear so slight a person by their onslaught with their iron-
 
 62 Sir B evil I 
 
 shod staves. The first man beat at the slight rapier, while 
 the other passed wide of him to close on him from behind. 
 Ehot did not attempt to ward the man's blow with his 
 sword, well aware that if it were broken he should be at 
 their mercy, but took the stroke on his left forearm and 
 passed his rapier through the man's shoulder. It was a 
 moment's work. The fellow yelled with pain, for the blade 
 had passed through the muscle of his right arm before it 
 reached the shoulder, making a ghastly wound. Quick as 
 lightning Eliot withdrew it and turned on his second 
 adversary, who retreated on seeing his brother ruffian fall 
 against the bank. Whirling his staff over his head, in a 
 way that showed he was no novice at quarter-staff, he 
 backed from Eliot and shouted aloud. The man Blackie 
 now reeled towards them, and leaping round him was a 
 lurcher, short-legged, but a strong beast. Ehot had no fear 
 that he could settle the trio if only he could get at each 
 singly, but if they came all together — well, he might spit the 
 drunkard but the odds were against him escaping the staff 
 of number two and the dog's teeth. 
 
 " Down on thy knees, man, and beg for mercy," he cried, 
 " or I will put this through thy heart." 
 
 " As well be ' bleached on the chares ' * as stuck by thee. 
 Here's to thee and blast thy head," and he affected to aim 
 a blow to get the rapier's blade exposed. The ruse was 
 successful, the iron-shod staff fell on the hght weapon and 
 Eliot was left with nothing but the hilt in his hand. The 
 man rushed on him with a shout, and was met with a blow 
 from Ehot's left fist under the ear, which almost felled him. 
 But now the half-drunken Blackie and the dog were on him. 
 The man received the rapier hilt on his mouth and fell to 
 swearing, the dog paused and crouched to spring, when full 
 on his head came Grace's stone. The one thing that a dog 
 
 * Hung in chains.
 
 Eliofs Encounter with the Gypsies 63 
 
 will not face — not one in a thousand — is a stone from the 
 human hand, and the mongrel fled. Ruffian number two 
 was the only fighting foe left. He seemed loth to give up 
 his prey, yet still more loth to meet him, for Eliot with 
 Grace by his side stood in the middle of the road and the 
 ruffian hardly knew how much aid his enemy would receive 
 from a woman who had beaten off his dog. Besides, the 
 ladies of his acquaintance were always a power to be 
 reckoned with ; why not this one ? So he hesitated and 
 as usual was lost, at any rate lost his chance of plunder. 
 
 " Pick up that staff," whispered Eliot to the girl, and in 
 a moment he was armed equally with his opponent. 
 
 "Theest murdered my ship,* man, art going to let him 
 bleed to death ? " 
 
 " Look after him then yourself," said Eliot, drawing 
 Grace aside and keeping his eyes warily on number two. 
 
 " Go on home and the ruffian t cly thee," said the fellow, 
 and Eliot backed away for a few yards, then led Grace off 
 down the lane. A woman stood at the door of a cottage. 
 She was old and her face seamed with lines of care, but she 
 was clean and well clad. 
 
 " I saw thee fight," she remarked as they came up. " A 
 fair fight and a good win for the gentry cove." 
 
 " You keep queer company, dame, if you live by such a 
 crew as that." 
 
 "They never harm me, man. But why fares Mistress 
 Grace Smith along the lanes with her gallant this time of 
 night ? Methought the earth was barely good enough for 
 her dainty feet." She laughed low and mockingly. 
 
 " Ah, good dame, you know me ? Then for the love of 
 God tell me the way to Madford ; for we came up the river 
 in our barge and lost ourselves in escaping from the crowd 
 in the meadow." 
 
 * Mate. t Devil take.
 
 64 Sir Bevill 
 
 "And what gain to me if I show Sir George's proud 
 daughter home ? Will he sit on the Bench and try me for 
 a witch as he did Moll Dansey three years agone ? " 
 
 " Good dame," said EUot, " show us the way to Madford. 
 I will give thee a gold piece, and if ever thou art taken for 
 a witch, send for John Eliot to defend thee. God made 
 thee to be a good woman, and to fear Him, and not the 
 Devil. I am one that holds not with making witches of 
 poor women who are cleverer than their neighbours." 
 
 " Say you so, Sir John ? " She came up to him, put her 
 hands on his two shoulders and peered into his face. 
 "Say you so ? And you will help a witch to escape the 
 water and the faggot ? I thank thee. Sir John. There is 
 Glory and — and Death written large in thy face, I thank 
 thee. Yes, I will show thee and the maid the way to 
 Madford." 
 
 It was not far, and the house was astir with alarm at 
 their non-appearance. Men had been sent by the bank 
 and along the road. Richard vowed that he had seen 
 them standing in the light of the bonfire, and himself had 
 returned to the river bank. As she refused to enter the 
 gates, Eliot gave their guide her promised piece, and 
 looked closely at her face as she took the coin by the light 
 of a torch which one of Sir George's men was holding at 
 the entrance of the garden. She was recognised by the 
 man, who said, " Good night, mother, wish e well." 
 
 " Wishing baint everything, sonnie, but I wish e honest." 
 
 The fellow laughed, and in reply to a question from Eliot 
 said: 
 
 " Know her ? To be siire I dii. Her's well known to 
 many, an feared by many ; they say she've a-got the evil 
 eye, but her's kaind enough to me and mine." 
 
 It was no little satisfaction to the Knight and his wife to 
 receive their daughter and Eliot safe and sound.
 
 I IIIANK lIlhK, SIK John: IH1-.K1-. Is Ol.UKV A.SU UKAllI WUI 1 1 1-..N l.AKdl-, 
 IN THV FACE I"
 
 Eliofs Encounter with the Gypsies 65 
 
 "Nothing would serve Sir Thomas," said Sir George, 
 " but to return at once to Potheridge. He was vastly 
 annoyed, and the more so that it was said to have been a 
 scurvy trick played upon him by some enemy. I would I 
 knew his name, he should taste the pleasures of the gate- 
 house for the night, and an empty belly in the morning if 
 he escaped without a whipping." 
 
 Grace caught the eye of Richard at that moment and 
 drew her own conclusion, but said nothing.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A TROUBLED HEART 
 
 THAT visit of John Eliot was a revelation of herself to 
 Grace. A child in years, her daily intercourse with her 
 mother, carried on with the perfect frankness of 
 equality, had formed her mind, and to a great extent her 
 manner, as that of a grown-up woman. It would not be 
 true to say that she was never young, for she was never 
 old, being of that " divine simplicity " which " speaks of 
 a gentle reverent life," if Paget's description of his mother 
 may be so far appropriated. Though she was not, as he 
 says, " faultless," yet 'twould be hard to find in the 
 history of those days a more perfectly winning character 
 than Grace Smith of Madford. 
 
 Eliot had disappeared along the western road towards 
 his home at Port Eliot, and Grace, who had risen early to 
 give him his stirrup cup of muscadel, went back to her 
 chamber to try and realise what that visit had meant to 
 her. No woman really loves a man who has not dominated 
 her life. He may not do it with his fist like the Conqueror 
 of England, as he made love to Matilda with his clenched 
 hand, but, if man is to have the whole love of a woman, he 
 must be her lord. Something of this dawned on her youth- 
 ful mind as Grace attempted to analyse her own feelings 
 about her new friend — and failed. He was so courteous, 
 so brave, so well furnished in thought and in the expression 
 of it ; and withal he seemed to understand her mind and
 
 A Troubled Heart 67 
 
 wishes, and yet to guide rather than gratify them. Then 
 she fell to comparing him with her cousin Bevill, and could 
 not help recalling with pride Eliot's words, " I humbly try 
 to imitate him." It seemed, too, so strange as coming 
 from him, and she knew that it was said in sincerity. Still 
 she could not but be aware that the measure of the two was 
 unequal, and that the beam went down on the side of 
 Bevill's friend. 
 
 Her reverie was broken by her father's voice calling her 
 in aggressive tones into the hall. It was no trifling matter 
 that had excited the good man's ire. Master Richard 
 Granville had taken his departure, but the flavour of his 
 knavery remained behind to the great annoyance of more 
 than one household. Sir Thomas Monk had sent over a 
 messenger in the morning with a letter which ran as 
 follows : 
 
 " Sir, — I desire to advertise you by this letter that a 
 charge has been brot to my knowlcdg that wilbe by no 
 means mor agreable to your worshippe than it is to mee. 
 By one of my felloes I lerne that the laste evening's disgras- 
 ful conduct was set a foot by meanes of your yuthfull 
 nephe Master Rd. Granville to whose treachery I was 
 indebtted for my ill handling. Hee is known to my 
 servant to have payed money to a youth to insult me by 
 feigning of an arrest on my j)ersonne. He hath played the 
 knave to my hurte and I leave it to you to deale w"* him 
 aC-' to his descrtes. 
 
 " Yrs faithfully 
 
 " Thomas Monk." 
 
 " To my honored frcnd 
 
 His Worsliippe Sir 0"=° : Smyth, 
 at Madford these. Pothcridge April iGio." 
 
 Lady Smith was exceedingly vexed at such a report of 
 her nephew's thoughtless and indecent folly. Sir Thomas,
 
 68 Sir Bevill 
 
 as her husband's son-in-law, was a person whose interests 
 they were bound to uphold. He came of an illustrious 
 family, and inherited a large estate hopelessly encumbered 
 with debt, and was to a great extent dependent on the 
 kindness and generosity of his father-in-law. That he was 
 liable to arrest for debt was well known. The wonder was 
 how he escaped so long. All this made Richard's folly the 
 more disastrous to his credit, as well as vexatious to his 
 friends. It was no surprise to Grace to hear such a tale as 
 this of Richard, but she could throw no light upon it. The 
 boy had led the way to the bonfire, but Sir Thomas and 
 the Lady Monk with George were in front of her ; she had 
 not seen Richard since he disappeared in the crowd before 
 them. He had not spoken the truth as to her and Mr. 
 Eliot looking on at the fire, for they had not been near it, 
 and had lost their way after failing to find the barge. They 
 had avoided the river bank because of the crowd, and had 
 met with still greater difiiculties in the lane, as Mr. Ehot 
 had already recounted. There was nothing left but for the 
 Knight to report the story to Sir Bernarde, a story of which 
 he shrewdly conjectured Master Richard would very stoutly 
 deny the truth. So Grace left the hall and took her way 
 across the garden to cool her head and clear her brain 
 among her flowers. At the far end of her garden was a 
 small green summer-house, stifl in its construction, but re- 
 deemed by the trailing beauty of many choice climbing 
 plants. In front of it was a marble basin of spring water 
 with a fountain, slight in volume but very beautiful as the 
 diamond drops reflected the morning sun. Between this 
 and the summer-house was a quaint sun-dial in the broad 
 gravel walk. She paused at the dial and looked, without 
 seeing, at the figures on the plate. 
 
 How fair she was in her plain unembroidered kirtle of 
 white silk taffety gathered up to show the pale blue cloth
 
 A Troubled Heart 69 
 
 petticoat beneath, her arms covered with soft lawn, while 
 round her neck was thrown a long silk scarf, tasselled with 
 gold, one fold of which was drawn over her head. In sooth 
 no flower of beauty in that old garden could eclipse " the 
 maid within it." A side door in the wall hard by was opened 
 with a key, and to her entered one of her dearest friends, a 
 widow, Mrs. Tremayne, whose little house lay just below 
 Madford, on the hillside, a sunny spot with its one occupant. 
 Mary Tremayne had been left a childless widow some half- 
 score years ago, and lived a simple gentle Hfe for others till 
 she should meet again him to whom her soul had yielded once 
 and for ever its fealty. Grace was especially dear, for to 
 her as a child she had turned for comfort in her earlier day 
 of sorrow, and now that the child had become almost a 
 woman, and indeed more than her equal in mental power, 
 she found her a most sweet and interesting companion, to 
 whom she could pour out the very secrets of her heart. 
 She was a slight and faded woman, but, if her form were 
 small, her heart was great. 
 
 She had heard something of Grace's adventure of tho 
 previous night and had started to learn the truth from her 
 friend. 
 
 "Dearest Mary, how good of you to come so early; 'tis 
 scarcely past the first morning hour, and I seem to have 
 lived years since yester-noon." 
 
 " Whence that experience, child ? There are two time- 
 pieces, one for work or leisure, and one for the heart ; tlic 
 latter jogs not ever with the first. What has come to thy 
 dear heart to make the hands move so slow ? " 
 
 " Dost think it must be my heart ? " 
 
 " Sure if 'twcr not, this merry-making yester-night 
 would not claim so vast a measure of lliy interest, 
 child." 
 
 " Merry-making, quotha. There was little merry-mak-
 
 70 Sir Bevill 
 
 ing for us i' faith. The good Sir Thomas Monk was 
 with us and was grievously insulted. Master John Eliot 
 escorted me, and we were cut off from the barge and lost 
 our way by taking a wrong path, were set on by robbers, 
 and only Mr. EUot's valour saved us. Oh, 'twas fearful, 
 but he was like — oh Mary; he was — well I cannot find words 
 — had an angel come from the sky he could not have acted 
 more nobly. He was so wonderful that I was hardly 
 afeared. Mary, I stoned a dog ! " 
 
 Mary Tremayne almost laughed aloud at the serious, 
 almost tragic, tone with which Grace told of her 
 heroism. 
 
 " Art laughing at me, Mary ? I did in verity, and he 
 cried out and ran ; but " — and she dropped her voice to a 
 whisper — " I believe that Master Eliot slew a man. He ran 
 him through with his sword, and we left him to the other 
 two." 
 
 " Then Mr. Eliot fought three men. 'Twas a mercy you 
 were saved." 
 
 " Yes it was indeed. They broke his sword and he used 
 the hilt on one and his fist on the other. So we escaped, 
 and an old woman showed us the way to Madford. Mary, 
 she looked so very strange. She took Master Eliot by the 
 shoulders and looked into his eyes and said, ' / see Glory 
 and, Death^ Sir John/ what could she mean ? He is not a 
 knight." 
 
 " Faith I suppose she was plying her trade. Most like 
 she was a gypsy and tried to prophesy." 
 
 " No. I think she is what folk call a witch ; she talked of 
 one Moll something who was tried for witchcraft three 
 years ago before my father." 
 
 "Oh, Moll Dansey. Thy father would not have her 
 burned as they desired. He was merciful and sent her to 
 prison, and she left the country."
 
 A Troubled Heart 7 1 
 
 She did not add that she had helped the poor creature 
 to find a home in Plymouth, and kept her from starving till 
 she died. 
 
 " Mary, what is it that goes to make a real hero ? " 
 Grace looked at her with so eager a gaze as to make clear 
 to her friend the reason why the hands of the clock had 
 moved so slowly. 
 
 " Child, when God made womankind, He, in His all- 
 wise wisdom, left out from their being one sense, and left it 
 out for our blessing. 'Tis the sense of proportion. He is 
 the greatest in the world, we say. He is the best in the 
 world, we swear. He is my Hero. We make him. Grace, 
 dear, hast found thy Hero ? " 
 
 " Mary, I know not quite what I have found. Thou 
 knowest, dear, that our parents have spoken of a marriage 
 betwixt my cousin Bevill and me. Thou shouldst have 
 heard Master Ehot speak of Bevill. He is his dearest 
 friend, and I must tell thee, Mary, somehow I have never met 
 any one hke Master Ehot. When I talk with dear Cousin 
 Bevill I can see that he is sometimes mistaken, sometimes 
 weak in his argument, sometimes not clear of his purpose. 
 But Master Eliot speaks, and I seem to know it is right 
 just because he says it. My reason too jumps with his con- 
 clusions. He is absolute. And then his courage, he never 
 falters, he knows exactly what to do and when to do it. 
 Oh, dearest Mary, to be his friend, to go to him for advice, 
 to be schooled by him in all that is noble and great ! " 
 
 Mary Trcmayne looked searchingly into her young friend's 
 face. There was a look of exaltation on it that she had 
 never seen before. 
 
 " But, Grace dear, you talk of courage ; hast not told me 
 a hundred times of Bcvill's courage ? Sure, in admiring 
 your new friend — and I have heard of him from not a few, 
 and of the great promise of his youth — we must not forget
 
 72 
 
 Sir Bevill 
 
 the courage, the integrity, and the sweetness of your cousin's 
 open, fearless character." 
 
 »• Yes," said Grace meditatively, " that was just what 
 Master Eliot said of him, that he was the sweetest man 
 he knew, and wished to imitate him. Was not that the 
 perfection of humility ? " 
 
 Mistress Tremayne began to think that for the present 
 she had better let the matter drop, and leave the hand of 
 time to bring back to her girl-friend's mind, if not a 
 perfect sense of proportion, which she allowed to be an 
 impossibility for a woman, at any rate some faint per- 
 ception of it. 
 
 " Was not your Cousin Richard with you yesterday ? " 
 
 "Yes, Mary," said the girl, hesitating to tell of the 
 blame that had been thrown upon him. "Yes, he was 
 with us, and I had as lief he had been away." 
 
 " What mischief then has he been at this time ? " 
 
 " I know not the truth, but Sir Thomas accuses him of 
 playing him a scurvy trick last night. I trust the tale hath 
 its root in a mistake. He is a reckless boy, and not always 
 good-natured." 
 
 " Is he with you now ? " 
 
 " Nay, he left this morning for Stowe. And Master Ehot 
 also hath ridden away. Know you the name of the Squire 
 of Trebursey ?" 
 
 " Certainly I do. Mr. Gedie is connected with my dear 
 husband's family. His daughter Rhadagund is noted as 
 much for her beauty as for the sweetness of her disposition. 
 I heard it said but yesterday that Mr. Gedie had spoken of 
 a contract of marriage between her and Mr. Ehot, I am 
 glad that she hath prospect of so good a husband." 
 
 Grace was silent, and the friends walked together into 
 the house to see my Lady Smith.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 RICHARD APOLOGISES TO HIS UNCLE 
 
 " "p\ EVILL ! Bevill ! " The voice was Sir Bernarde's and 
 
 rS came from the entrance hall. 
 
 " Anon, sir ! I am coming down." 
 
 " I am leaving for Trebursey. A messenger hath come 
 in this morning — he reached Stratton late last night — 
 begging me to come over and advise with Master Gedie. 
 John Eliot is to marry with his daughter Rhadagund, and 
 he bids me come and advise him as to the land. He wishes 
 to see thee also there, but I trow thou hast scant time just 
 now to spare, and wilt desire to defer thy visit till the 
 wedding, which will be some time this year." 
 
 " 'Twould pleasure me greatly to ride with thee, dear 
 father, but this Greek syntax holds me by the feet and I 
 must not escape. I think I should break old Master Huish 
 his heart if I failed. I like well the Latin poets, but the 
 Greek of Sophocles I confess doth try my patience sore. 
 Shalt thou return this week ? 'Tis Trinity and the court- 
 leet will be shortly holden," 
 
 " I shall return, God willing, this day se'night. See that 
 Richard runneth into no misciiief. He must either write to 
 his uncle Sir (icorge Smith and clear himself of the charge 
 made by Sir Thomas Monk, or write to his worship and 
 make his apology for his ill-behaviour. I think he surely 
 was guilty of the trick, and it was an evil one to be done to 
 so good a man."
 
 74 Sir Bevill 
 
 " Dick denies it, father." 
 
 " Dick hath lied too often, lad." 
 
 " I humbly ask thy pardon, my good father," cried 
 Dick, who had come down from his chamber in stockened 
 feet. " I do not lie, nor never use that habit. I have 
 written a letter to my uncle Sir George, and here it is. If 
 it please thee, I will send it by the Kilkhampton carrier on 
 his next journey. Shall I read it to thee ? " 
 
 " Nay, give it to me, Master Dick. I will read it myself and 
 judge if it be fit for the good Knight to receive." He took 
 it in his hand and read the following. Those who have 
 perused some of the letters of his later years will not be 
 astonished at his more youthful performance : 
 
 "Honorable Uncle, 
 
 " I represent to you my very aff'^ regarde. Also 
 the Scmae to my Aunte. I truly value the justice of 
 your remarke, after reciting the vile accusations wh have 
 ben hirled upon mee by my cosens husband Munk, asking 
 for explanacion. You Sir were behinde by several pases 
 when wee approoched the bonfire, so that 'twer scars 
 posible for you to perceave the goinges on. Cosen Munk 
 seemeth to mistak all sportes for insultes, and when a 
 youth near bye remarkt see good peeple yonder monke on 
 a stike one penne, hee took it al amis as intended for 
 hisself and struke ye ladde, by which grew a quarrel 
 betwixt them and the ladde his brother fearin the sword 
 of the Munk laid hand on him and sayd in the Kinge's 
 name stoppe on wh : Sir Munk out withe his wepon and 
 fiorished it over his head and cried to you for helpe. I saw 
 no mor and as I had not been neare him, nor desired to, 
 I went my way. 'Tis true the ladde who was struke came 
 and used thret to me as one of Munk's parte and I was
 
 Richard apologises to his Uncle 75 
 
 foolish enuf to give him a groat wh : is doubtlesse the 
 cause of this ill accusacion against mee. 
 
 " from yr. humble neve Rd. Granville 
 " At Stowe." 
 
 Quoth Sir Bernard, " Thou wilt have to write it again, 
 Richard, and give the address of Sir Thomas Monk more 
 respectfully." 
 
 " Gladly will I do that, father." 
 
 The Knight's horses were brought out into the court, and 
 with two serving-men riding behind on stout horses with 
 changes of raiment in their great holsters, he took his way 
 to Trebursey. 
 
 " Thanks be to the Lord that is over," said Dick. " Here, 
 thou limb of Satan, Jacky Martin, carry this letter to thy 
 villainous old father Peter up to Kilkerton Town, and bid 
 him to deliver it safely at Exeter to the Worshipful Sir 
 George Smith. And see thou stay not lingering in the bull- 
 ring with thy lousy brothers, but return at once, for I want 
 thee. Mind if thou hngerest I will crop thy ears, thou 
 lazy knave." 
 
 The boy departed at a run. 
 
 " Father told thee to alter some words in thy letter, 
 Dick." 
 
 "Did he?" 
 
 " Yes ; and thou gavest thy word to do so. I would not 
 care to break my word like that." 
 
 " Dost think I am going to waste my time over that old 
 Smith and his precious son-in-law ? Nay, let him swallow 
 it. Lord, 'twas as good as a play to see the fat-sided ass 
 swinging his arms about and shouting. I laughed till I 
 fairly cried." 
 
 " I fear it was all thy doing, Dick." 
 
 " Of course it was. I owed liim a shrewd turn, an I
 
 76 Sir Bevill 
 
 have e'en given it him, so we are quits. He will perchance 
 be more careful another time how he scoffs at me an my 
 sword." 
 
 " Dick, Dick, thy word is worth more than a moment's 
 laughter. A man whose word cannot be taken is but a 
 sorry knave." 
 
 " Knave indeed ! Ha ! I could tell thee of a knave an 
 I would. Dost think it a knavish trick to spend the night 
 in the lanes about Exeter with another's plighted bride, 
 and he his dear friend ? " 
 
 " Dick, I desire no evil gossip of others' faults." 
 
 " What if the friend were thine ? " 
 
 " Truly I should grieve if it were true, and pray for his 
 better consideration of himself and the lady's honour. But 
 I fear thou art bent on testing my patience at the expense 
 of truth." 
 
 " What if the lady were pledged to thee, and John Eliot 
 were thy friend ? " continued his tormentor. 
 
 " Then I should be happy, knowing my dear Grace were 
 in good hands and safe, whether in the lanes near Exeter 
 or her mother's chamber. So that you speak of John 
 Eliot, brother, I would liefer she were with him than any 
 man I know. But what caused them to be out at night ? 
 I trust no harm happened to my lady through thy wicked 
 folly." And the quiet face and eyes flashed fire as Bevill 
 turned on his brother in such anger that even Dick, with 
 all his courage, cowered before him. 
 
 " Nay, no harm, God's truth ! For Master Eliot brought 
 her back in safety to Madford, but they lost their way by 
 some means, and some drunken gypsies annoyed them. 
 By what I could make out Johnnie spitted one, and the 
 other ran away, but no harm was done. Thy dear friend 
 John Eliot took mighty care of the dainty lady, and she 
 repaid him with her softest words and sweetest smiles."
 
 Richard Apologises to his Uncle 77 
 
 " I warrant she did," and Bevill turned away to seek 
 Anthony Payne. The last words had touched him, as 
 Dick intended they should ; and he repeated them over to 
 himself, for he loved Grace, and had often doubted whether 
 he had gained her entire heart. She was so calm ever, 
 and so sisterly with him. " Spent the night together in the 
 lanes!" "Soft words and sweetest smiles." Even with 
 his dear friend Eliot this was rather much. And he went 
 down to Coombe with his dogs and Anthony at his heels. 
 
 " I am a fool to care — or even to think twice of it ! 
 John cares for no one but his Rhadagund, and Grace is true 
 as steel." Though but the prick of a pin the wound rankled. 
 
 The sough of the summer waves came up the valley, 
 Bevill paused for a word with old Digory, whose friend, 
 Thomas Yarde, had been borne to Morwenstowe church- 
 yard. 
 
 " Canst smoke a pipe yet, old friend ? " said the lad. *' If 
 so, here is some of the American weed for thee," 
 
 *' Smoke ? Ees I can smoky a bit still, thank the Lord, 
 Tes cruel dull settin alone, Mars' Bevill, wi'out old Tom. 
 I d'miss he terrible ; simmy 'taint no manner o' iise telling 
 wi' these youngsters. Thed d'know nought. Now wen I 
 was to Kilkerton forty year agone, my vather wer living an 
 smattic [asthmatic] hewer. Old Parson Granville he'd come 
 in an tell. Lord, I liived to hear un. He'd seed a site o' 
 men burned alive he had. He'd seed tij kings an tii queens 
 sense he'd ben Rector o' Kilkerton. Old church were 
 tumblin down wen he come, and I've heard he say as 
 it wcr forty years afore he cud get money to have un 
 rebuilt. Ye see they wer that busy a-robbin the church in 
 hes day as they had no time to tend to help he buildin one 
 up, so he'd got to waaite, an waaite he ded forty years an 
 that wer forty years agone as he finished un, au I wer 
 there."
 
 78 Sir Bevill 
 
 " 'Tis a brave church now, Digory." 
 " Ees fay, tes so. I reckon as old Sir Rhichard gived a 
 pretty penny. There was vour carver chaps as hved to 
 Kilkerton Town pretty nigh 'pon three years workin there, 
 clever chaps they wer, 'Twas tremengus work y'may 
 depen. Father wer orful drunk that night. Buship wer 
 ther an a many others. Lord, I've a-forgot moast on em. 
 Forty years agone an moast on em dedn knaw whether they 
 wer Papistses or Protestans. I d'mind a-hearin the Buship 
 say to Master Granville, ' Wot's this yer ? These ain't 
 the close as I wears,' and he pointed to some chaps 
 carvnn. ' Tes all one,' ses the old Rector. ' Tes all one,' 
 ses he, ' tii o' them there carvers be Papists, an tii on em's 
 Protestans, an they fight pon times, but they does their 
 work well, an I dosn't interfere,' ses he, an the Buship 
 loffed. ' You an I've a-seed mun boath, Master Granville,' 
 ses he, * and there's good an bad in boath,' ses he. ' And 
 I've a-seed em boath burned alive,' ses he, ' but ^tes better 
 times now, an only them there cussed Spaniards to look 
 arter.' That's the very words as he iised — * Them cussed 
 Spaniards.' An I wer ther, and I ses ' Amen,' an the 
 Buship says, ' Raight you are, sonny.' In come Sir 
 Rhichar wi hes great voice a-sa5ang, 'Wot's raight 
 Buship ? ' Lord, what a voice a had, did make a man's ears 
 ringy. ' Wot's raight ? ' ' Curse the Spaniards is raight,' 
 ses the Buship. ' Aye, marry, be damned to em,' ses Sir 
 Rhichar. Oh Lord ! Lord ! what times those was ! " 
 
 " Who are these, Digory, coming down the hill from 
 Stowe ? " 
 
 " Can't see mun," said the old man shading his eyes. 
 
 •* I can tell e, Mars Bevill," said Anthony Payne, " that 
 
 long-faced psalm-singer in the middle es Zacky Treague, 
 
 there esn' a bigger rogue an hippcrcrit in Kilkerton ; he's 
 
 a-going up to Marster William Amige to Cleave^to buy sheep,
 
 Richard Apologises to his Uncle 79 
 
 I'll warrant. Stout stoggy chap es the parish attorney, I 
 calls un, Nathan Hockridge ; t'other's foxy Tracy, a witty 
 little chap. Yu knaw un, Mars Bevill. 'Twer he as sent 
 the farrier to draw out Joe Treleven's teeth wen he wer so 
 drunk up to Holy Thursday vair. Mornin, Mars Hock- 
 ridge, sarvent, sir. Wot's up Foxy ? Es thee pon mischief 
 these day ? " 
 
 "Wish you good day, gentlemen," said Bevill. "Master 
 Hockridge, we have had a bout of skittles together before 
 now. You did not pass Stowe I trust without a draught of 
 ale ? What, no ? Ah, my father is from home ; you must 
 call on your home journey, and I will be glad to see you 
 served, and you also, gentlemen." 
 
 " Times of trial these, good sir," said Master Treague in 
 a solemn voice, " oppression is rife in the land, the Lord's 
 people are trodden under foot of the oppressor." 
 
 " Deed ? " said Foxy. " Who've yii ben a-treadin on ? " 
 
 " I said the Lord's people were being downtrodden, 
 Master Traccy, but not by me. No ! " and his long black 
 beard seemed to stretch down to his waist as he rounded his 
 mouth to utter "No." " Must I stand quietly by and bear 
 it ? Noo. Is it, or is not true, young man, that thy father 
 jiurposes to turn Scad's Hill into a pasture and remove the 
 tenants that he may increase his flocks and herds. Woe 
 unto him that removeth his neighbour's landmark." The 
 beard seemed to drop almost to his knees as he uttered^ 
 " Woe." 
 
 " His worship," put in Anthony, " es sellin sheep, 
 Master Treague. Do e need any ? Tiiey'm good an 
 sound, an cheap." 
 
 The eyes of the long-faced man glittered, his beard 
 seemfd to grow shorter, as his face broadened almost to 
 a smile. 
 
 "Sheep, ded you say, Master Granville?" said he,
 
 8o Sir Bevill 
 
 ignoring the tall man. " Is the worthy Knight, your father, 
 selling sheep ? Praise the Lord ! he has come to a better 
 mind. I have a grassy mead that needs to be eaten down ; 
 methinks I could do with half a score ; perchance even a 
 score or thereabouts ; the hill yonder to Cleave is steep. 
 Your good father's shepherd perchance could point them 
 out to me ? " 
 Foxy was holding his sides with suppressed mirth. 
 
 " Beant e afeared o' the woe, MarsterTreague ? Mebbee 
 these sheep'll make e want to remove your neighbour's 
 landmark ! " 
 
 " Master Tracey, thou art in the gall of bitterness and the 
 bond of iniquity. The Lord's own people are guided by 
 Him in the narrerway." 
 
 "To buy sheep in the cheapest market," quoth Tony 
 Payne. 
 
 " My good sir," said Bevill, " I know not my father's 
 mind as to sheep, but he has not told me that he is selling 
 any. Anthony, I think thou wert shooting beyond the 
 mark ; thou must gather up thine arrows." 
 
 •' Is it true, fair sir ? " said Master Treague, anxious to 
 change the subject, "that the King is raising money with- 
 out a Parliament, and also permitting the laws against the 
 Papists to lie in abeyance ? 'Tis so said. If true, he will 
 bring a curse on his house. Touch not the unclean thing, 
 saith the Lord. Noo ! " And the beard grew long again. 
 
 " The King can do no wrong," said Master Hockridge. 
 " I misdoubt thy information, friend Treague. Come, we 
 shall not win our way to Cleave to-night at this rate." 
 
 " I will call and see thy shepherd on my way back ; yes 
 surely, yes. Praise the Lord ! " murmured Mr. Treague. 
 
 " And I will call and see the ale, honoured sir," said 
 Foxy, and took his red head after the others. 
 
 " Thou shouldsthear that long-faced, black-haired rascal
 
 Richard Apologises to his Uncle 8i 
 
 railing at the King when he gets among his fellov/s," quoth 
 Anthony. " He has turned out by the hedge two poor 
 hard-working men on a farm he lately bought, and is 
 buying sheep all round, a sanctimonious rogue ! I'd like 
 well to souse him in the sea." 
 
 " Thou'd have a lot of sousing to do, Tony, an thou'dst 
 wash all the rogues even in one parish," Bevill rephed. 
 " Man, they are being led astray after gain, and they lead 
 others. Yes, and there be great and good and righteous 
 men also, who see the great evils that are growing to ahead 
 in the land, and are too Winded by that vision to take 
 much note of the greed and hypocrisy of many that follow 
 them. I hke not this turning farms, that might well sup- 
 port four or five families, into grazing ground, with but one 
 shepherd on each. Whatever is Master Richard up to in 
 the valley yonder ? " 
 
 " Save us, Mars' Bevill ! he hath his worship's three- 
 year-old stone colt, that sorrel son of Vulcan that thy 
 father sets great store by ; tes Master Cary with un on his 
 black mare, Rarner, he calls her." 
 
 " I see they are trying their paces. 'Tis too bad of 
 Richard. My father gave orders that the colt should not 
 be ridden. And as I live he cannot hold him and will be 
 in the bog in a minute. See there, he is making for the 
 black bog beneath Stowe Wood I Look ! Cary has turned 
 his mare from it, and Richard is floundering in black mud 
 to the colt's haunches 1 " 
 
 'Twas true that Master Richard was in a parlous state, 
 for when I^evill and Anthony reached the mire, Richard 
 was slowly dragging himself clear on one side, while the colt 
 had just struggled out on tlie other and stood shaking 
 with fear. The morass is small, but deep with black ouse ; 
 here and there tufts, or tussocks, give but a treacherous 
 footing. Going in as far as he could with safety, Anthony 
 
 F
 
 82 Sir Bevill 
 
 gave the boy a hand and drew him on to sound turf, 
 Poor Dick's mouth was half full, for the colt had pitched 
 him forward on his head ; and, moreover, he was sore, out- 
 side as well as in, with a heavy blow on his thigh which he 
 had received from the animal's fore-foot in his struggle to 
 free himself from the bog. 
 
 For some few moments Dick could not even swear, but 
 he did his best to make up for lost time as soon as he could 
 clear his choking throat of its unsavoury draught. 
 
 " Lad, lad, 'tis thine own fault; leave cursing the dumb 
 brute and the stinking bog. Tony and I will give thee a 
 hand to the house, and I will send stable varlets down to 
 bring up the colt. They should not have spared it against 
 our father's order." 
 
 Richard made no reply, for the very sufficient reason 
 that he had fallen in a faint to the ground from sheer pain. 
 Anthony picked him up as if he were a kitten, and carried 
 him to the great house at Stowe, up the hill which tires 
 strong men without a load. There they undressed and 
 washed him tenderly, finding a fearfully gashed bruise on 
 his thigh, made by the sharp hoof of the colt's fore-foot. 
 Bevill nursed his brother with great care for several days ; 
 strong and tender, he forebore reproaches, doing all in his 
 power to gain a hold over his brother's affections. Richard's 
 wound healed rapidly, and he regained his good health, but 
 not good temper, and small were the thanks which his 
 brother received for his care. Indeed he treasured up a 
 grudge against him for having seen him with the forbidden 
 colt.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 LIZZIE PASCHOWE 
 
 WHEN Bevill and Anthony Payne had caught sight of 
 Richard on the Vulcan colt they had j ust passed the 
 mill and were standing under the wood on the rising 
 ground by the miller'sgarden. Talking to the miller not many 
 yards away was Lizzie Paschowe, the smartest- tongued, live- 
 liest,trim little gossip in Coombe. Liz loved ribbons and news 
 above all earthly things, her maiden reserve did not extend 
 to stockings and shoes — indeed shoes were somewhat at a 
 discount with the youth of Coombe. Next to these material 
 and mental joys came her grandmother, and, after her, 
 Anthony Payne. She believed implicitly in the wisdom of 
 the former as much as she trusted to the giant prowess of 
 the latter. Her sharp eyes had followed the scene in the 
 valley meadow. Her glee at master Richard's fall was un- 
 bounded, for him she cordially detested. He had bestowed his 
 youthful admiration on her more than once, and more than 
 once had had his cars well boxed for his pains. She had 
 marked how Tony had taken him in his arms, and carried 
 him u}) the other side of the valley to Stowe, and she gloried 
 in the mighty strength of her admirer. Tony had turned his 
 head, seen her and nodded as he passed, and she had a 
 shrewd suspicion that he would, if he could be spared, turn 
 back after he had carried the boy to Stowe, and have a 
 " tell " with her. At any rate she hoped it. And hope in
 
 84 Sir Bevill 
 
 this case proved a faithful prophecy, for as she sauntered a 
 Utile way up the hill she met Tony striding down. 
 
 " Thee doesn't take long to rhin down a hill with thy gurt 
 legs. Why, Tony man, thou couldst jump from here to 
 Kilkerton Tower in a dozen strides. Come, there's a good 
 boy, an tell me 'bout Mars' Dick. Es he much hurted, 
 hope e es." 
 
 " Don't thee be so sarcy, Liz. Ill-wishin thy betters es 
 not commendable in thee." 
 
 " Lor, wot words we use ! * Commendable ! ' How do e 
 spell it ? But I say, Tony, tell me es e hurted ? " 
 
 " Faith then, he is. He waant set down comferable these 
 many a day. Colt het un hard behind an cut hes thigh bad. 
 I reckon thy grandmother '11 have to go up an plaster un." 
 
 " Grannie ain't home, Tony. Her've gone up to nigh 
 Exeter fer to see her sister. Her wer sent for by carrier. 
 Hark e Tony, don't thee let it outside thy lips an I'll tell e 
 summat. Tes sacret." 
 
 " All right, maid, goo on, I can keep et." 
 
 " Look thee here, Tony, tes a terruble dangerous matter," 
 and the small woman drew herself up and looked mys- 
 terious ; she opened her large dark eyes till they were quite 
 round, and pursed up her crimson lips till they looked so 
 tempting that Tony stooped down and kissed them. 
 
 " Ha done, stupid," was all she said by way of reproach, 
 but neither returned the embrace nor moved a muscle. 
 
 " I'm thinking." 
 
 "Don't." 
 
 " I shall. Hold thy noise. I chooses to think. Tes 
 serious, tes dangerous. Can I trust thee ? " 
 
 " O' course thou canst. Wen I pass my word, that word 
 I keep." 
 
 "Thee'st a hard, I've a-made thee break thy word mor'n 
 once."
 
 Lizzie Paschowe 85 
 
 "Thee hast," said the giant sadly, "more's my shame; 
 but thee'st th'only one as can say that." 
 
 " Well, I'll tell e. I luv granny dear, I dii, an her's in 
 trubble. Her's terruble fond o' these sister up to Exeter, 
 her's one of the cleverst women alive an knaws most every- 
 thing : but her's curious, her es. Her'll say things as is 
 a-going to come to pass, an they come." Lizzie sunk her 
 voice to a whisper, and Tony put down his face till it almost 
 touched hers. " Now no more o' thy nonsense, Tony, tes 
 hfe an death. Lor, I've a-knawed old Aunty Zip tell 
 grandmother like this. 'Sester,' her'll say so solium, 
 * Sester, there'll be a wreck ashore before to-morrer eve an 
 lives lost ; three, four, five dead men on the beach ; I can see 
 them.' An she'd put her head down betwixt her knees and 
 her hands ovver the back of her head. * I can see them, 
 three, four, five.' An there they was the very next day. 
 'Twas wonderful! And now she's in trubble. I don't 
 raightly knaw what but her's in trubble, and her've a- 
 sent for grannie. Look'e here, Tony, I am thinking as 
 grannie may bring her away home to keep her out uv 
 danger." 
 
 " What danger ? " asked Tony anxiously, for though he 
 had no fear in him for human enemies, his dread of the 
 unseen and supernatural was abject. 
 
 " I can't raightly tell what danger ; but, Tony, they dii 
 say as her's a wetch. And thcy'm criiel hard on them as is 
 called wetches now. I've a-hcard her tell of how they were 
 near upon burnin old Moll Danscy to Exeter, only him as 
 Mars' Bcvill calls Uncle Smith — I reckon he wants to marry 
 the Lady Grace, his daughter — her's a sweet one, Tony, ain't 
 her ? — Well, as I was sayin, they wanted to burn Moll 
 Dansey, an Sir George Smith wudden'thave it; but put her 
 in prison and then let she out. Her was a friend of Aunty 
 Zip's. An grannie's afraid for aunty. So if she do bring
 
 86 Sly Bevill 
 
 her home here, Tony, thee wilt be a friend, wunt thee ? I'll 
 be kind to thee, Tony, an thou wilt." She looked up with 
 love and entreaty in her eyes. 
 
 "But," said Tony hesitating, "es she really a wetch do 
 e think, Liz ? Cause the Lord hath said, ' Thou shalt not 
 suffer a wetch to live.' I've a-heard Passon Huish read it 
 out." 
 
 " Dear sakes, no, her ain't no wetch. Her's clever, her 
 knaws mor'n other folks." 
 
 " Well, but how bout these wrecks, an dead men ? Tes 
 miracullous, Liz, tes miracullous." 
 
 " Faith I spose she felt the storm an she guessed there'd 
 be a wreck," said Liz, fearing that she had made a mistake 
 in recounting her aunt's mystic powers too precisely. In 
 truth Zippora Polsuth (who was no other than the old 
 woman who had shown Grace and Eliot the way to 
 Madford) was a strange creature. A few years older than 
 Grannie Paschowe, she had lived a rather wandering Ufe, 
 had been married twice, first to a sailor who took her to 
 the coast of Barbary, was captured there with him by 
 pirates, from whom they had escaped, chiefly by her skill 
 and address, and a pretended use of the " black art." She 
 had been to Virginia, had been to Spain and France, and 
 now, a second time a widow without children, had settled 
 down near Exeter. Her name had, unfortunately for her, 
 got mixed up in the untoward events of that Whitsun 
 Monday. A surgeon had been called in to mend the 
 wound of Eliot's rapier, and found the gypsy being cared 
 for by Mother Polsuth. Sir Thomas Monk had made 
 inquiries. The worthy Knight, though neither a fooUsh 
 nor an ill-natured man, had been grievously vexed at the 
 insults he had received, and was only too ready to find 
 some one on whom to vent his wrath. Vexed and cum- 
 bered with debt, not of his own incurring, it was hard to
 
 Lizzie Paschowe 87 
 
 be turned publicly into ridicule for the same, and he 
 resented it with considerable impatience. 
 
 John EUot had been annoyed on the same night, there- 
 fore probably by the same persons, or those in league with 
 them. So he urged Sir George Smith to proceed with 
 vigour against these gypsies. The wounded man was too 
 near death's door, thanks to the doctor's lack of skill, to be 
 apprehended, and the rest of his tribe had flown, but there 
 was that old witch of a woman, Zippora, probably the 
 worst of the lot, and in the pay of Satan ; it would be well 
 to put her to the question. Sir George hesitated, yet the 
 matter was spoken of, and soon came to Mother Zippora's 
 ears, and hence her message to her sister that she was in 
 trouble. Mrs. Paschowe came, and on the following day 
 returned to Kilkhampton with her brother, a weakly old 
 man, well wrapped up, alias Zippora in disguise. 
 
 Thus it came out at last that grannie and her sister 
 were actually at Coombe, and trim, seductive Uttle Lizzie 
 was doing her best, somewhat at the expense of truth, to 
 enhst big Tony Payne as her champion. 
 
 The wood-pigeons cooed among the fir-trees, a cuckoo 
 flitted by, perching anon on a low bough, and gave out his 
 double cuck-cuckoo which made Mrs. Hedge-sparrow 
 sitting on her second batch of eggs in the hedge beneath 
 crouch low and peer up with wistful ej'es. A robin ceased 
 his song, and uttered his thin-drawn pipe of fear, fine as 
 silver wire, as the sparrow-hawk glanced over the bank 
 above and slid along the woodland path, his bright, eager, 
 yellow eye piercing each bush as he passed. " Ware hawk," 
 muttered the blackbird through his orange bill. " Touch 
 me ? touch me ? like to see him ! like to see him ! " shouted 
 the bold, brave missel-thrusli. Tony, under the sjxjII of 
 Httle Liz, was weaker than the missel-thrush, and gave 
 himself up to be pecked by the little maid, who kissed his
 
 88 Sir Bevill 
 
 lips and made him vow to protect grannie and her sister 
 with all his mighty strength, whensoever and howsoever 
 occasion should arise. Then down the hill she darted and 
 away to her home under the sheltering rock. The big man, 
 flattered and happy, pleased to be coaxed, glowing with 
 pride at his conquest of little Lizzie's heart, which he 
 flattered himself he had now fairly won, strode up to the 
 old house above, happy, but something puzzled as he 
 thought of old women on broom-sticks, of witches' philtres 
 and charms, that might even deprive him of the love of his 
 maid. The cuckoo fled before him up the path and left 
 the hedge-sparrow's nest unharmed, the sparrow-hawk 
 darted across the valley, and the robin, relieved from fear, 
 joined the blackbird and missel-thrush in a paean of 
 triumph and content.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 AUNTY ZIP 
 
 MONTHS passed. Bevill Granville had taken his degree 
 at Oxford, had spent some time in London ; was 
 known at Paul's and had made his bow at Court. 
 
 But of all the fair ladies at Court or in the Mall not one 
 had diverted his affections from the maid at Madford who 
 had for years held more than a sister's place in his heart. 
 
 Leaving London on a summer morning he rode by easy 
 stages to Exeter. It was evening when he reached Madford 
 where he was to lie that night, and on the morrow accom- 
 pany Grace and her father to Stowe. 
 
 Great were the preparations next morning. Six strong 
 serving-men on stout horses with enormous holsters and 
 packs behind their saddles accompanied the Knight and his 
 daughter, so that, what with these, besides Bevill and his 
 servant, Grace had a goodly retinue. 
 
 Fair indeed looked the maid on her dark grey Spanish 
 gennet. Tlie " whisking wind above " brought colour to 
 her cheeks, and the lover at her side a sparkle to her eyes. 
 The road to Crediton was wide and good. Here Sir George 
 turned aside to speak with a neighbour with whom he rode 
 on for several miles conversing on business. By the lady's 
 side Bevill was perfectly hapj^y. His sunny temper found 
 interest in every fresh scene, in every bird and creature. 
 He recounted to her his first impressions of Oxford, the 
 college halls, the quadrangles, the river and the schools of
 
 90 Sir Bcvill 
 
 teaching. He described the great Rector of his college, Dr. 
 Prideaux, a Devonshire man of vast learning ; his associates 
 and his pursuits. 
 
 " But I would that dear John Eliot had been there, I 
 have no friend like him. Alas ! now that he is married I 
 fear me I shall see even less of him than before. He doth 
 desire me to come to him at Trebursey, so I shall have to 
 leave thee for a few days. Dick and my father with my 
 sister Gertrude will be at home to keep thee merry." A 
 quiet look of almost sadness came over her sweet face as 
 she asked : 
 
 "Dost know Mistress Eliot, Bevill ? Is she as fair as 
 they say ? He is worthy of a good woman's heart." 
 
 " Aye, that he is. How good, how brave he is few can 
 tell. He passed through Oxford and stayed two days with 
 me. He spoke of thee, Grace." He looked at her as he 
 said this, calHng to mind his brother's almost forgotton 
 words about their night adventure. Grace blushed deeply 
 as she replied : 
 
 " I trust Master Eliot bore us no ill-will for that, in his 
 kind visitation of us, his love and zeal for our welfare 
 obtained for him so poor a recompense." 
 
 " Nay, sweetheart, rather he was filled with admiration 
 for a certain maiden's courage, and good presence of mind 
 when he found himself in danger of hfe. Nor did he for- 
 get to tell me that she felled an evil dog with a stone, which 
 thing aided much his deliverance from his bloodthirsty 
 enemies. I tremble still to think of thy danger, Grace, 
 while I cease not to thank God, and my friend, for its happy 
 termination." 
 
 " We have had much trouble since, and a shrewd fright, 
 Bevill. Thou hast heard that an old woman showed us our 
 way to Madford. Her name is Zippora Polsuth, and she 
 hath the name of being a witch, she was wonderful strange
 
 Attnty Zip 91 
 
 in her ways as well as sayings. She nursed for a time the 
 man that was wounded by Master EUot. Sir Thomas Monk 
 desired my father to have her laid by the heels, but he had 
 little Uking for that work, and could not so act without 
 sworn evidence of some crime, or act of witchcraft. And none 
 was forthcoming, but one day a sister of hers, 'tis said, came 
 to her house, and on the morrow neither were to be found. 
 The wounded man vowed that he has no knowledge of her 
 going. Some say that the two were seen in the night fly- 
 ing through the air ; but I gave no credit to the tale. 'Tis 
 reported that she was bred near to thy house of Stowe. 
 Sir Thomas wrote to thy father, I know, to ascertain if any 
 communication hath been held between her and members 
 of her family in or near Kilkhampton." 
 
 " It would grieve me to think my good father were to em- 
 ploy his time or his means in any such adventure as to hunt 
 out a supposed witch. The fears of the ignorant are many 
 and often monstrous. I like not to have cause to make a 
 censure on my father, but I fear he takes for gospel the 
 foolish ravings of our Scotch King, who, with all his learn- 
 ing, doth cut but a sorry figure, when he exposes his abun- 
 dant superstition, and the scant knowledge he hath of the 
 government of the world." 
 
 " I remember me that Master EUot expressed his want of 
 belief in those superstitions. He hath a great regard for 
 thee, Bevill, and spoke words of thee which were very 
 pleasant to hear. Mcthinks he will be a great man one day, 
 Hut he hath a sad and a delicate look." 
 
 Bevill turned in his sadfllc and looked earnestly at Grace 
 as if he would read her tlioughls, but her eyes were turned 
 upwards, and for a moment or so she looked to him as one 
 in a dream. Her lips moved as sh« murmured : 
 
 " Glory and Death ! " 
 
 " Wliat moves thee, sweetheart ?"
 
 92 Sir Bevill 
 
 " Ah ! Bevill, the woman — that night looked in his 
 eyes." 
 
 " Whose eyes ? " 
 
 " Sir John's:' 
 
 " What Sir John ? I know not of whom you are 
 speaking." 
 
 " I think my head wanders. What said I ? Sir John ? 
 Yes, that was what she called Master Eliot that night. 
 Looking into his eyes she said, ' I see Glory and Death.' 
 Dost think she can know ? They say she hath the evil 
 eye. And now she hath gone no one knoweth whither. 
 'Tis passing strange." 
 
 They rode awhile in silence. Whole-hearted and loyal 
 as he was, it seemed to Bevill a Httle strange that his 
 Grace, his betrothed, should Hnger so over every word of 
 and concerning his friend. It was his brother's saying 
 perchance that gave it point. He put it away as a girl's 
 dream. Of course she could not help admiring John Eliot. 
 Who could ? If he himself were but as clever and as 
 noble as his friend he should be more worthy of the 
 sweet true-hearted woman by his side. Still, how a 
 thought Hke that breeds silence ; takes out of the heart 
 the joy of sweet nothings, lovers' whispered incense! 
 
 The morning after they reached Stowe all the talk was 
 of Bevill's visit to Trebursey where Eliot was staying. 
 The Knight carried off his son to arrange for his departure 
 almost at once. The visit, he said, had been arranged, 
 and Bevill must not delay, he had horses ready for him to 
 start on the morrow ; and the fancy arose in Grace's mind 
 that his father was keeping Bevill from her side, and only 
 anxious to send him away. Certainly Bevill was obliged 
 to go, for here was John Eliot's messenger pressing him to 
 come at once, and he departed leaving Grace and her father 
 at Stowe.
 
 1.
 
 Aunty Zip 93 
 
 The two worthy and worshipful Knights were soon deep 
 in consultation over the serious matter of witchcraft, forced 
 upon their notice by Sir Thomas Monk, Sir George Smith 
 had grave doubts on two points concerning witchcraft, first 
 as to the legal aspect of the question, and secondly and 
 chiefly, as to the moral right of obtaining and using 
 evidence as it was in those days obtained and used. 
 
 " But, my friend, see here, the King is at the head of 
 justice in the land, he is the ^ons et origo thereof, he hath 
 power as King to lay down the law." 
 
 " Nay, nay, sir, consider a moment. The King, it is true, 
 is head of the justiciary of England. He can appoint the 
 Lord Chief Justice, the judges, the magistrates, who shall 
 carry out the law, but he is himself subject to the law, and 
 can neither break it, nor cause it to be broken. Sir Francis 
 Bacon would uphold that I know, for he never will allow 
 that to be right which is morally wrong." 
 
 " I will not argue the point with you, Sir George, 
 although I beheve that my statement will hold. But at 
 any rate his Majesty's rendering of the law concerning 
 witchcraft is surely both correct and scriptural. He lays 
 down that they who consult witches, they who trust in 
 their projects, are equally guilty with the witches them- 
 selves, and he judges that all should be put to death 
 according to the will of Him who saith, ' I will not suffer a 
 witch to hve.' Now as to the present case : here we have 
 a woman, notorious as one possessing the evil eye, consort- 
 ing with robbers and cut-throats, despising the skill of the 
 apothecary and the surgeon, and, it is said, bringing about 
 the cure of a notorious rogue, who was wounded by Master 
 Eliot, so that he might be spirited away just as the hand 
 of justice was ready to secure him. My dear sir, I tremble 
 to think of what might have happened if John Eliot had 
 not used so great courage and dexterity ; imagine thy
 
 94 S^^ Bevill 
 
 daughter in the hands of those villains, why my blood runs 
 cold, ray hair stands on end at the very thought. Dost 
 think that this limb of Satan had not by her occult and 
 black art given previous intimation to these robbers of the 
 coming of thy daughter and Master Eliot ? Aye verily, and 
 by causing that insult to be levied against thy good son-in- 
 law forced them to take an unwonted and dangerous 
 road." 
 
 " But, my good Sir Bernarde, had this woman possessed 
 these miraculous powers, sure she could have given 
 practical aid to the robbers so that they should have over- 
 come Master Eliot. But she did not so, rather did she 
 render to him and my daughter the assistance which they 
 needed." 
 
 " Sir, witches are not all-powerful. The Deity prescribes 
 limits, just as He said to Satan, ' Upon the person of Job 
 put not forth thy hand,' so there are limits. Virtue, sir, 
 hath safeguards ; ' Their angels do behold My Father's 
 face.' Thy daughter is clearly under their protection. 
 But that does not absolve the witch from her evil intent. 
 She of Endor was forced to have dealings with Samuel to 
 her own horror, when she would fain have raised a devil," 
 and Sir Bernarde finished his scriptural illustration with a 
 triumphant flourish. 
 
 " I pray thee, good friend," returned Sir George, "let us 
 leave the general question and come to the particular 
 evidence : What reason have you to believe that Mother 
 Polsuth is concealed near here, and if so, what evidence is 
 there that she hath practised the black art ? " 
 
 " I thank thee, Sir George, for bringing me to the point ; 
 a neighbour of mine, a worthy yeoman, came to me but 
 two days since and confirmed a suspicion which I had 
 before entertained, that there was something wrong going 
 on about us. On the last Sabbath day I was walking on
 
 Aunty Zip 95 
 
 the downs, which border the ocean here, taking a look at 
 the sheep with my shepherd. We distinctly saw two 
 ravens of unusual size, flying over the rocks below us. 
 Suddenly they wheeled round, rose rapidly, and rushed to- 
 wards two other smaller ravens who were perched on the 
 edge of the cliff. The four birds held a conclave together, 
 bowing and croaking at each other in the most astonishing 
 and supernatural manner. For myself, I flatter myself 
 that I am not superstitious, but the shepherd and I both 
 agreed that it meant something. ' They be devils,' he 
 said. To my judgment they seemed devils holding con- 
 verse with witches. Next day came to me one Zachariah 
 Treague, somewhat a Puritan perhaps, but a sensible man, 
 who informed me that a woman had told him that her sister 
 who lives in Hartland parish had told her, that her niece 
 had seen a boy who said that Grannie Paschowe, as they 
 call her in Coombe, either was a witch or had a witch in the 
 house. Now that is suspicious, ' had a witch in the house,' 
 that would be two, and two bigger ravens, being two 
 devils, would exactly make up the four ; Quod erat demon- 
 strandum, or rather demonsiraium, unless my Latinity hath 
 grown rusty." 
 
 Sir George could hardly suppress a smile at the good 
 Knight's self-satisfaction at the perfection of his 
 proof. 
 
 " I tliink I should hardly like to hang man or woman on 
 that evidence." 
 
 " Why not, sir ? Wliy not ? Wliat saitli his most 
 gracious Majesty ? ' God will save the innocent if they be 
 innocent,' therefore put them to the proof. Remember 
 the concluding words of our royal master, tliat as our 
 dehverance draws near, Satan rages the more in his instru- 
 ments, knowing his kingdom to be so near an end. I 
 mightily approve our royal Solomon."
 
 96 Sir Bevill 
 
 " How then, sir, may I ask, do you propose to act in this 
 matter ? " 
 
 " It is my desire, Sir George, to act with you in this 
 matter. I crave your assistance, the aid of your ripe 
 wisdom. I propose to send down and apprehend Mrs. 
 Paschowe and all in her house on suspicion of being a witch, 
 and of harbouring evil characters." 
 
 " You sure will have some evidence, good sir, more than 
 the saying of a man, however sensible, that a woman's 
 sister's niece had heard a boy say something about which 
 he himself was not quite certain ! " 
 
 " I'faith, my dear sir, we shall find out more anon by 
 carrying out my plan," said Sir Bernarde with aprovokingly 
 superior air. 
 
 Grace had come in at a door behind Sir Bernarde, and 
 had heard him express his determination to apprehend 
 Grannie Paschowe. She did not remain in the room, but 
 went out for a walk to the sea. As she passed out of the 
 courtyard she came upon Tony Payne, who was, in country 
 phrase, " learning his dog " to jump over a stick. 
 
 "Shall I attend thee, mistress ?" quoth Payne. 
 
 " I shall be glad if thou wilt, Tony. Mistress Gertrude 
 is unable to come with me and I always feel safer if thou 
 art nigh. Would thou hadst been with us the night that 
 Master EHot and I were set upon at Heavitree." 
 
 "Master EUot be a fine gentleman weth his sword. I 
 warrant 'twould take more than three drunken gipsies to 
 outdo him." 
 
 " Well, Tony. I don't think the man he ran through was 
 drunk, nor the one he struck with his fist. I hear the 
 wounded man was doctored by old Mother Polsuth, but 
 she has disappeared, and the man, too, had gone when the 
 constable sought him. 'Tis said at Exeter that Mother 
 Polsuth comes from or near by Kilkhampton."
 
 A tint y Zip 97 
 
 " Not likely, mistress, there is no such name among us." 
 
 " Tony, is Grannie Paschowe a friend of thine ?" and 
 Grace looked hard at him as she spoke. Tony had but little 
 experience of keeping secrets — they consorted not with his 
 nature — consequently he blushed like a girl in her teens and 
 stammered out that of course he knew the Coombe folks. 
 
 " I fancied Master Bevill told me that her granddaughter 
 was thy sweetheart. If that be so thou must surely care 
 for her grannie. I have seen them both and thought the 
 maiden passing sweet and fair, and the old woman quite a 
 picture in her white cap and plain quilled ruff." 
 
 *' Lizzie is as God hath made her. And, an I may say it, 
 mistress, He did not slight the job. And grannie is as 
 good a wumman as ever one in Devon or Cornwall, and no 
 offence to your ladyship." 
 
 " Tony, I would see grannie. Canst keep a secret ? " 
 
 " Odd's life, madam, no more secrets for me. Prithee 
 find some one else. Such things do drive me mad." 
 
 " 'Tis to save grannie being driven mad that I want to 
 tell thee somewhat." 
 
 " Mistress, mistress, don't e," poor Tony blubbered 
 out. They turned the sharp twist in the steep hill, and 
 there, just in the wood leaning against a tree, stood Lizzie, 
 weeping bitterly, a picture of misery. She looked up 
 frightenedly at Grace and half turned as if to run. Then 
 stood still looking down. 
 
 " Whatever's the matter, Liz ? cried Tony. 
 
 " What ails thee, child ? " said Grace kindly. 
 
 " Humphrey's bin down an told old Digory that Sir George 
 Smith be come to Stowc witch-hunting, and cs a-going to 
 begin with grannie. That old black beast Zack Trcague 
 bin a-tellin as how he fancies grannie's been an wetchcd hes 
 sheep. He've a- lost half a score. Starved em to death, I 
 believe, an now he's putting ov it on grannie. Oh lady, cs 
 
 G
 
 98 Sir Bevill 
 
 it true ? Yii'm Mars' Bevill's young lady, I know ; tell me, es 
 it your father as is come to bring us trubble ? " 
 
 " Why are you feared, httle maiden ? If your grannie is 
 a good woman she has no cause to dread my dear father ; 
 he is very kind, and believes not foolish tales. Tell me, is 
 there any one in thy grannie's house that practises evil ? " 
 Lizzie looked up sharply at Tony, and Tony sadly down 
 at Lizzie. 
 
 " Tony, thou hast not " 
 
 "Tony, I have trod upon thy secret! Maiden, thou 
 canst trust in me. Tony has told me nothing. But I asked 
 him to keep a secret, and he replied, ' No more secrets for me.' 
 Whereby I guessed that he had one to keep. Thy look and 
 his have told me that the secret is in thy grannie's house." 
 '* Mercy, mistress, pray thee mercy ! Oh, thou knowest 
 not what this means ! They will drag us all out, they will 
 drag us all out, they will persecute us till we tell lies such 
 as they desire, and then they will burn us all ahve ! Oh 
 mistress, mistress ! O God ! O Christ ! I cannot bear it. 
 Tony, Tony, help us all to get away and hide in the woods," 
 and the child darted away among the trees. In two or three 
 strides Tony was with her and drew her to his heart. 
 
 " I'll never leave thee, lass." Grace came to them among 
 the trees and tried to soothe the girl, who sobbed as if her 
 heart would break. Voices in the road made them start, and 
 Grace stood behind the trunk of a large oak tree. Lizzie and 
 Anthony were clad in more sombre-colours and were con- 
 cealed by some young scrub. Sir Bemarde with his friend were 
 followed by half a dozen footmen. The Knight was saying : 
 '' 'Tis as well to let no time slip by, we can go and 
 search at once, and if no suspicion arises no harm will be 
 done." And they passed down the hill. 
 
 "They are going to search our house. I'll be before 
 them." She bounded down the hill, rushed through the
 
 Aunty Zip 99 
 
 copse and underwood, tore through briars and bindweed, 
 fell and rose again to push through all, then over the bank 
 and through the stream at the bottom, across the meadow ; 
 at last, breathless, she sank down in her grannie's cottage. 
 
 " Sir Bemarde and Master Smith from Exeter are coming 
 to search the house for a wetch," she cried. 
 
 " How near be they ? " said Zippora, quietly rising. She 
 was dressed still as an old man. 
 
 " They will be here in five minutes or less." 
 
 " I will go upstairs and put on my own clothes," said 
 Zippora. " Say your sister is poorly, but dressing herself, 
 and will come down anon." She went up quickly, and 
 before Sir Bemarde knocked at the door she was down 
 again dressed as a widow. Grace had come into the road, 
 and for the purpose of delaying the searchers had sent on 
 Tony to ask her father to stay for her and she would 
 accompany him to the sea. The party waited for her. Sir 
 Bernarde with some impatience, but she would not hurry 
 her steps, and when she reached them, begged her father to 
 unlace her shoe as the heel hurt her ; she must have got a 
 pebble in it when she went into the wood to pluck a late 
 wild rose ; she asked Sir Bcmarde's pardon for delaying 
 him, but the day was young. 
 
 When at last they reached the house the two old sisters 
 were sitting quietly by a wood fire, while Lizzie, sweeping 
 the floor most diligently, only stopped to open the door and 
 admit the two Knights, who desired to come in without 
 their following. The two old women rose and courtcsicdto 
 the gentlemen, and Cirannie Paschowe begged them to be 
 seated, while Lizzie dusted chairs for them. The women 
 stood and the Knights sat down. Never a word did Sir 
 George speak. He knew Mother Polsuth in a moment, but 
 bowed to her as if to a stranger and was mute ; Grannie 
 Paschowe, too, kept silence.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 MASTER TREAGUE QUOTES THE PROPHET JOB 
 
 OUTSIDE the cottage door, which was almost, but not 
 quite closed, stood Mistress Grace hardly knowing 
 what to do or where to look ; behind her at the dis- 
 tance of only a few paces the serving-men were gathered in a 
 group. Anthony Payne stood on Grace's left near the cot- 
 tage window, apparently bent on examining the glass but in 
 reality looking for Lizzie. The two Knights did not speak 
 for some seconds, while the old women stood one on either 
 side of the fireplace, each with a hand upon the chimney- 
 board, each dressed in black with a widow's cap, marvel- 
 lously alike, save that on Grannie Paschowe's face was a 
 heightened colour, while Zippora Polsuth was perfectly 
 pale, her face showing as white as her quilled ruff. It was 
 a striking picture, the open fireplace with great logs charred 
 and half burned, and over them the large black cauldron 
 without a lid ; the two old women standing like supporters 
 in a coat of arms, one on either side, one hand of each 
 holding the half-knitted wool, while the other rested on the 
 shelf; the two Knights, bravely clad, sat on chairs by 
 the round table facing the women, their backs to the door, 
 and behind them Lizzie, her lips parted and her eyes round 
 with mingled fear and excitement. At last Sir Bemarde 
 spoke : 
 
 "How many more hast thou in thy house, Mistress 
 Paschowe ? "
 
 \ 
 
 Treague quotes the Prophet Job loi 
 
 " These, your worship, are all our family. My grand- 
 daughter Lizzie thou knowest. This is my sister." 
 
 " But sure there was an old man with thee when thou 
 camest from Exeter." 
 
 " There is no man here, your worship. Folks may travel 
 in the same carrier's wain without living in the same 
 house." 
 
 " That is true ; but when came thy sister here ? " 
 
 " My sister walked here a long time agone." 
 
 " Our desire, mistress, is to speak to thee in private," he 
 continued, addressing Grannie Paschowe. " Thy grand- 
 daughter, therefore, might well go and pay her mother a 
 visit." 
 
 "Liz, child," said her grannie, "go and ask thy mother 
 to spare us half a pound of butter and six fresh eggs." As 
 Lizzie left the room and opened the door Sir Bernard 
 asked the sister's name, to which she herself replied : 
 
 " I am called Zippora Polsuth." The words came clear 
 and distinct through the opening door as Lizzie passed out ; 
 Grace caught the sound of the name and looked sharply at 
 Lizzie. 
 
 " For God's sake, lady, go in and say a kind word if you 
 can for aunty." Grace entered at once and went straight 
 up to Zippora ; holding out both hands she cried : 
 
 " Oh, dear Mrs. Polsuth, I am so delighted to see you 
 and to be able to thank you again for your kindness to us 
 on that terrible night." She shook the old lady warmly by 
 the hands and looked triumphantly at her father as she 
 did so. It was rather too much for the Knight of Stowe, 
 For the moment he almost lost his manners as he turned 
 with an angry look at the fair girl. 
 
 "Mistress Grace, it were well " he began. But her 
 
 father interposed. 
 
 " Pardon mc, Sir Bernarde, my daughter owes to this
 
 I02 Sir Bevill 
 
 good woman a debt of gratitude for timely aid at a most 
 critical moment. The sisters are so marvellously alike that 
 at the first I was almost puzzled as to the identity of 
 Mistress Polsuth. Now, my child, as we have business 
 with these good women, I will ask thee to go down to the 
 shore with Anthony, and we will join thee anon." 
 
 Sir Bernarde had to swallow down his wrath, and he little 
 liked the taste of it. That his son's intended wife, the 
 future mistress of Stowe, should demean herself to treat 
 this old witch as an equal, shaking both her hands, con- 
 trary to all the rules of courtesy and high breeding ! this 
 was bad enough — but to do it before his face to a culprit, 
 yes a culprit, in his eyes self-condemned, and before him 
 who had come down expressly to try her, and he might 
 have added with truth, expressly to condemn her— it was 
 monstrous ! it was unbearable ! and a spark of his father's 
 temper glowed for a while on his usually placid coun- 
 tenance. But Grace had accomplished her purpose, had, 
 so to speak, sworn in her father on the side of mercy, and 
 she left, closing the door with one of those radiant assuring 
 smiles that won for her in after days the title of "The 
 light of the house." Lizzie waited for her and read the 
 look, and, coming quietly to her, knelt at her feet and kissed 
 her hand, and then turned towards her mother's cottage. 
 
 Meanwhile, within the room, where the two Knights sat 
 to hold their inquiry, there was by no means that unity 
 of purpose which could lead to any decided action. So 
 shrewd a woman as Zippora Polsuth had no difficulty in 
 reading the true intent of Grace's action, or the meaning 
 of the look upon her father's face. Sir Bemarde's loss of 
 calmness, to use a mild term of the state of the worthy 
 Knight's temper, landed him at once in difficulties from 
 which he could not extricate himself, and in which his 
 friend gave him no assistance.
 
 Treagite quotes the Prophet Job 103 
 
 As the door closed behind Grace he almost shouted : 
 
 " I suppose I may take for granted, woman, that you 
 rode here from Exeter on a broomstick ? " 
 
 " Your worship must have greater powers than I can 
 pretend to, if your worship can turn a carrier's wain into 
 a broomstick. I am quite ready to go with your worship 
 before Peter Martin, the Kilkhampton carrier, who brought 
 me a long while ago to the village. From there I walked 
 to my sister's house." 
 
 " Indeed, indeed," said the Knight. " Peter Martin shall 
 be interrogated. On which day didst say that thou left 
 Exeter ? " 
 
 " 'Twas on a Wednesday afternoon, your worship, the 
 thirteenth of August. Methinks I have reason to note 
 that day, and that too, perchance, may your worship have, 
 for did you not come to your inheritance that night, though 
 you knew it not ? " 
 
 "What dost mean, woman?" said Sir Bernarde, and 
 there was fear as well as anger in his voice, for he liked not 
 this kind of catechetical lecture. 
 
 " What do I mean ? I mean that on that night the good 
 ship of Queen Elizabeth, called the Revenge, was battered 
 by the Spanish fleet that she had mauled, and on the next 
 day the bravest man, into whose eyes I ever looked, died 
 on board the Spaniard's ship, and his son Bernarde came to 
 be the Lord of Stowe. God's truth ! Had thy father been 
 here we should have heard no silly old-wives' tales of 
 witches and broomsticks. You," and she pointed with her 
 stark forefinger at the quailing Knight. " You ! A Gran- 
 ville ! You ! A hero's son ! To come down here to fight 
 and fray old women. Go to, man. Go serve and believe 
 in thy God, as thy father did, and learn to face devil, or 
 Spaniard, and fight both, but leave poor old honest women 
 alone."
 
 1 04 Sir Bevill 
 
 She had hit the open place in the good man's armour ; 
 for he was good at heart ; the sound of his father's name 
 was music to his ears. He himself was not especially 
 brave, but he honoured courage in others, and the thought 
 of that awful and most gallant fight touched him as little 
 else could do. Had this woman really seen and known 
 Sir Richard ? Was it true that Sir Richard had no faith 
 in witchcraft ? He had heard it said that Queen Bess had 
 none, but then she was a Tudor, of a race that knew no 
 fear, and cared nought for man nor devil. Sir George 
 came to his rescue, as he sat helpless facing the prophetess, 
 whose commanding look seemed to dominate the room and 
 its occupants. 
 
 " I think, Mistress Polsuth, that our best plan is to make 
 a note of your statement and see if it is corroborated, and 
 we shall take further steps accordingly. It will be wise for 
 you to remain for the present where you are. We will 
 now wish you good afternoon." 
 
 And so they departed with their henchmen at their heels, 
 looking one at another and somewhat puzzled, for the joy 
 of a witch-hunt quite counterbalanced the regard in which 
 they held Dame Paschowe. The Knights found Grace on 
 the shore watching with others the departure of a small 
 trading vessel, starting for Bristol. The shore boat had 
 but now, vdth some difficulty, made its way through the 
 breakers to the vessel, which was spreading her sails to the 
 soft autumn breeze. 
 
 Sir Bernarde's temper was still in a ruffled state. He 
 had not forgiven the abrupt entry of Mistress Grace on the 
 scene, or her indecent exhibition — as he termed it — of 
 friendship for the old witch, nor was he better pleased to 
 find his future daughter-in-law standing talking on the 
 sand to Lizzie's mother, while with one hand she caressed 
 the curly head of Mrs. Paschowe's youngest boy, Charlie, a
 
 Treagiie quotes the PropJiet Job 105 
 
 sweet rosy little chap of three. So he gave her a curt 
 greeting, adding : 
 
 " I am going over the down, mistress, to look at some 
 sheep with thy father ; Anthony Payne will see thee safe 
 to Stowe. The ground swell is rising with the tide, and 
 clouds are gathering in the west ; 'twere well for thee not 
 to linger." 
 
 He crossed the brook below the great pool near the sea, 
 and with Sir George chmbed the steep of the cliff towards 
 the Warren. 
 
 Grace stood still and silent for a while, wondering what 
 she had done to raise such black looks on the good 
 Knight's placid countenance. A child in the distance gave 
 a shrill call and Mrs. Paschowe hastened away with 
 CharUe, after taking a respectful but loving leave of the 
 fair girl, who stood looking Ustlessly into the crests of the 
 breaking waves. Snowy wings showed gleamingly against 
 the dark clouds of the horizon, as a flight of gulls and 
 kittiwakes left the bosom of the ocean, whirled upward, 
 circled round, lit again on the waves, rose to their feet, 
 flapped their white wings over their heads, and then sank 
 down to look like little toy boats on the water. Two choughs 
 swooped down out of the blue above, their red feet out- 
 stretched, their black wings closed till they almost touched 
 the sand, then outspread stayed their darting course, and 
 next moment were strutting and bowing side by side on the 
 yellow shore, searching with their long curved bills for food. 
 Two ravens cawkcd from the sheer cliff to the right, and 
 took little note of the four buzzards that wheeled and circled 
 just over their heads. Then, as now, what a wondrous 
 home of birds was that rock-girt bay! shore-larks ran 
 along by the stream searching every stone for flies and 
 beetles, the ousel and kingfisher flew backwards and 
 forwards on the stream. There was life everywhere. But
 
 1 06 Sir Bevill 
 
 Grace still gazed and gazed into the wave-crests, and for 
 the time heeded neither man nor bird. 
 
 She quite started at Tony Payne's voice, close to her ear. 
 
 " Mistress, his worship said it would rain ere long ; it 
 would be wise to turn towards Stowe," 
 
 " Ah, Tony," said Grace turning round, " is it Stowe or 
 Lizzie Paschowe that you wish to seek ? Sure she is 
 yonder at the ford." 
 
 " Nay, mistress, yonder is not Lizzie, but a man, and, an 
 I mistake not, 'tis Master Richard. See, another has joined 
 him. One that was but now with Sir Bernarde, 'Tis Barnaby 
 Dick, as I live. I wonder what hes he is telling Master 
 Richard. They'm main disappointed to have no hand in 
 a witch-hunt, and I fear Barnaby'll put others up to some 
 mischief which he would fear to do himself. I would that 
 old lady had never come to darken grannie's door; but 
 there, blood's thicker nor water any day ; I fear she'll get 
 grannie into trouble yet." 
 
 Three men had followed the Knights, but the fourth, 
 Richard Courtis, called " Barnaby Dick," had been sent 
 back. This youth was brimful of mischief, though good 
 hearted and far from malicious in his most wanton 
 moments. From earliest days the "suantest" liar in 
 Coombe valley, but withal a most attractive urchin, and 
 who in after days lived and died as brave a sailor as any 
 in Cornwall. It certainly was Richard Granville whom he 
 met at the ford, and the two were seen, after a long con- 
 versation, to start together up the cross valley leading 
 northward from Coombe. 
 
 Grace and Tony reached the ford and crossed it by a 
 narrow plank, or rather a tree thrown across the stream by 
 the road side, and cut fiat with an axe. At least Grace 
 crossed by the tree, while Tony gravely walked through the 
 water, which was up to his knees, giving Grace his hand to
 
 Treagne quotes the Prophet Job 107 
 
 steady her footsteps on the rough, narrow bridge. Just 
 beyond the stream they met Mr. Zachariah Treague. 
 
 " WeU met, friend Payne, well met ; I was speaking anon 
 with thy master's son, a goodly, and, saving for slight 
 errors of youthful speech, a gordly young man. Yees a 
 young man of promise. He doth not hold weth them that 
 work pillows to all armholes. No. He doth not consort 
 weth them that work weckedness in high places. Noo. They 
 shall surely perish that say unto the dumb stick arise." 
 
 Grace had hurried on by the man, she could not bear his 
 look, and the leer with which he favoured her brought the 
 hot blood to her cheek. 
 
 " Wot's all this here about. Master Treague ? " inquired 
 Tony, " any one bin a-steahn of your sheep ? They tell me 
 yii've a-bin over-feedin em and they can't stan it. Esit 
 trii ? " 
 
 " The father of Hes hateth the Lord's people, Master 
 Payne. No. But there are worse things than over-much, 
 or over-Uttle food. There is an c/il eye, Master Payne, 
 an evil eye ! And it shall be pluct out and weth it the 
 eagles shall feed their young. So saith the prophet." 
 
 " Dii he indeed, Master Treague. Make so bold, sir, as to 
 ast what prophet ?" 
 
 "The Prophet Job, Master Payne, a gordly man that 
 could not abide sinners, and one that was hated by Satan." 
 
 " Was he, indeed, Master Treague ? Wesh I'd knaw'd un 
 times back wen I got inter bad corapny. I have a-heard of 
 another prophet as said, ' Dii to others as e wud they shud 
 du onto yii.' Wot wud yii say. Master Treague, if anybody 
 said as yii'd got the evil eye ? Blame me — there's Mistress 
 Grace a-caalin." And Tony left the Puritan chewing tlie 
 cud, and murmuring to himself a remonstrative '* Noo," 
 which sounded like a groan in the distance. 
 
 "Mistress," said Tony when he reached her, which he ac-
 
 io8 Sir Bevill 
 
 complished in a few strides, " I beg your Ladyship's pardon, 
 but I were a-tryin to sound that thief to know what mischief 
 he is on. For certain sure he's been tellin weth Master 
 Richard about pillars and armholes, what that means a caan't 
 guess. Then a went on about weckedness in high places, and 
 dumb sticks risin up. Wotever's th' old hippercrit up to ? 
 'Tis witchcraft, mistress, ef 'tis any meanin at all," 
 
 " Yes, I suppose that's what he means by ' Pillows to all 
 armholes.' As for sticks, unless he means that silly nonsense 
 about witches riding broomsticks " 
 
 "That's of it, mistress, that's of it. I see thrii an thrii 
 un now. Thank the Lord an yer Ladyship, I see thrii un. 
 Ah, Master Treague, yii and I have a settlin yet. Pillars 
 an sticks I'll gie yii boath on em. Sure's I ain't a dwarf. 
 He beginned bout evil eyes an I had un there," mur- 
 mured Tony with a self-satisfied grin. " Ees I had ee 
 there. I ast un ow eed like to be told as he had the 
 evil eye, I ded. I'll ' creem ' ee afore ee's a month older 
 as sure as Barnaby Dick' 11 tell a he afore ee goes to bed." 
 
 No sooner had they reached Stowe than they learned that 
 a messenger had arrived from Trebursey begging that 
 Anthony Payne might meet Bevill at Tavistock on the 
 following day with horses, and one especially caparisoned 
 for a lady. In a letter to his father, Bevill asked this 
 as a great favour which he would explain anon. They, 
 for whom he besought this accommodation, were friends 
 of his grandfather. He hoped to return in three or four 
 days. 
 
 So it came about that the next morning the fair Grace 
 saw with some chagrin her stalwart squire making his way 
 across the downs above Stowe, mounted on the mighty 
 Vulcan, leading a lady's genet.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 AND RICHARD QUOTES KING JAMES 
 
 WE must go back a few hours and stand for a 
 moment by the side of Richard Granville and 
 Barnaby Dick as they plotted mischief by the 
 Coombe river where it crosses the road to the shore. 
 
 " 'Tes trii, Mars Rhicher, as I stan here," Dick was saying, 
 " I seed mun weth my fery own eyes, I ded ; door wer open 
 an her went up to she, an amost kessed her, th'ol wetch ! 
 Putt out boath her hands, her ded, an drawed so close to er 
 as ef her'd even vail into her arms. Worn't that wetch- 
 craf ? D'li suppose a young lady like she'd care to come so 
 nigh a dirty stenkin old ooman ef her wasn't wetched to dii 
 it? Notlaikly." 
 
 Says Master Richard : " Dick, my lad, we must pv* a stop 
 to this. If that beggarly old Exeter Knight won't^ I will. 
 I'm sure father's straight as a Hne. He believes in h s King 
 and his Bible. And he's not the man to suffer a witch to 
 live. Only he doesn't like to offend Master Bevill 8 father- 
 in-law and shut up his money-bags. I see liis gaini-.. No, 
 my boy, he himself won't move, perhaps, but he'll be 
 devilish glad if some one else will tackle this job for him; 
 and you and I will lead the way. Come along a bit out 
 of that long-legged fool's way. I can see his ugly teeth 
 grinning in the distance." 
 
 So away strolled the two Richards along the path beneath 
 the scrub oak wood opposite the hamlet of Coombe.
 
 1 1 o Sir Bevill 
 
 When they had left the cottages some way behind Richard 
 Granville paused. 
 
 " I must get back to Stowe, but you might cross the 
 valley and call in at Cleave and tell with one or two of 
 the young chaps there. Don't go into Ovis, it's not safe, 
 but go on to Eastway, and then cross to Woodford. You'll 
 find one or two at the smithy ; just drop in and ask for a 
 few horse-nails. Tell them to look out ; if they don't want 
 to get witched they had better lend a hand to those who 
 know how to put a stop to such projects. That's enough 
 for the present. It'll set them telling. Only bid them 
 keep it dark from the Squire at Tonnacombe, and that 
 cursed young sprig of a parson at rectory." 
 
 " I'll dii et, Mars' Richard, never fear. But when shall 
 us meet to settle how to car' it out ? " 
 
 " You shall hear in two days. I must settle the plan 
 with that old fox Zack Treague ; he's a deep one, and a 
 blasted rascal into the bargain, but I can make him useful ; 
 and if there is any danger I can slip it on to his hypo- 
 critical shoulders." 
 
 " Aye, he's a bad un. He'd scrape the grease out of a 
 poor man's pot. Down weth the King, an down weth the 
 Pope, an down weth the gentry folk, but tes up wi Zack 
 Treague that he meaneth all the while." 
 
 " I don't care a damn what he meaneth as long as he 
 can be made to play our game. Skittles is nothing to 
 hunting a witch. And be damned to the whole lot of 
 them ! " 
 
 So saying, he turned up by a path through the wood 
 which brought him near the farm of Lea, into the yard of 
 which he went, under pretext of asking for a draught of 
 cider, to try and steal the heart and corrupt the virtue of 
 the youngest of Master Martin Grills's three daughters. The 
 farmer was at home, and bade the lad come in and wel-
 
 And Richard quotes King James 1 1 1 
 
 come ; and would he demean himself by sitting down to 
 a homely dinner of bacon and potatoes and his daughter's 
 poor attempt at a pasty ? As Mistress Janet was cele- 
 brated for her light hand in a pasty, as well as right 
 skilful at the junket, Richard was nothing loath to accept 
 the invitation. 
 
 Martin Grills of Lea was a considerable man in his way. 
 He farmed some seven hundred acres of Sir Bernarde's land in 
 the parish of Morwenstowe, and kept a larger flock of sheep 
 than any in the neighbourhood, except only Sir Bernarde 
 himself. His eldest daughter, Janet, kept house — a good 
 sterling woman of nearly forty-live. Four sons came between 
 her and Elizabeth, who was twenty-eight, and had been to 
 school at Exeter, and was learned in embroidery. Tamasine 
 was twenty, a healthy high-coloured farm lass, full of hfe 
 and laughter, fresh and fair to look upon. A boy of seven- 
 teen completed the family. Of the sons, three were married 
 and had farms of their own. Peter, of six and twenty, was 
 his father's right-hand man, strong, steady, and reliable. 
 Little Jim, of seventeen, was like Asahel, swift of foot as a 
 young roe, devoted to his accomplished sister Elizabeth, 
 and admired Bevill Granville more than any other living 
 man ; a slight, eager-faced boy, he had a peculiar beauty of 
 his own in a pair of large wistful grey eyes. Peter had not 
 come in to dine, and the grandfather in the settle by the 
 fire had his bason of broth taken to him where he sat. He 
 was a very aged man and had lost one ear, shaved off in 
 old times in Stratton because he was a Papist, while a black 
 mark in the other showed where a hot iron had i)ierccd it. 
 He had declined to give up his faith to please King Edward 
 or anyone else, and was cropped and branded for his pains. 
 He was very old, and just at this time sad, for he had lost 
 a good friend in Parson Huish, of Kilkhami)toii, who used 
 to come and talk with the old man of his early days. And 
 now his friend was dead.
 
 1 1 2 Sir Bevill 
 
 " Aye, aye," he would say, " he were a good parson, 
 though he were a Protestant, worse luck for him ; but he 
 knawed the Scriptures, and could say the ' Ave and Pater ' 
 in the proper tongue, like a good CathoUc. I loved to 
 hear mun." 
 
 The farmer and his family were churchmen and had no 
 sympathy with the Puritans. 
 
 " Your good father's a wise man, Master Richard ; " 
 quoth the farmer, "say what they like, sheep bring money 
 into the country. He doth well to have a good flock. 
 Scad's Hill and Houndapit were growin no corn and payin 
 no rent when he took em in hand, and now those two 
 farms keep a matter of six thousand sheep, if they keep 
 one. Hast heard that that old fox Zack Treague goes 
 about denouncin him right and left, an at the same time 
 the rogue buys land, turns honest men out into the hedge, 
 and buys sheep all round to starve them. That man will 
 hve to be hanged, an I don't mind if I go to see it." 
 
 EUzabeth, who could not bear the sight of Richard 
 Granville, here put in : 
 
 " Father, 'tis Master Richard's friend, thou must not 
 speak ill of good Mister Zachariah Treague. I hear he is 
 busy witch-hunting just now, good man, so cannot pro- 
 perly feed his sheep." And the maiden took a side glance 
 at Richard. 
 
 " Witch-hunting, mistress ? " said he, " I would rather 
 fancy that his Puritan nose just now was smelling out 
 Papists. Hast heard the King's new edict ? " 
 
 " No, your worship, it hath not reached so far as Lea. 
 Hath our noble King writ a new book on witchcraft ? 
 Verily the last was a masterpiece. There was a man whom 
 I hearkened to once in Exeter that had a pretty wit ; a 
 friend of mine tells me that he hath given a discourse on 
 his Majesty his last book, that would make a dog laugh."
 
 And Richard quotes King James 1 13 
 
 "Betsy, dear, the King can do no wrong," said Janet. 
 " 'Tis ill jesting on thy betters." 
 
 The old man near the fire had looked up sharply, his 
 hearing was good but his eyesight rather dim, when 
 Richard spoke of searching for Papists. A hunted look 
 came across his face. 
 
 " Kep un out, kep un out. I'm fery old, let me daie in 
 peace, wull ee ? " and he sank back on his cushion in the 
 settle. 
 
 The farmer rose up and went to his father to soothe him, 
 and Richard took the opportunity of whispering to Tamasine 
 to meet him across the lane in half an hour Justin the path 
 of the wood that crosses "Western Town." Elizabeth 
 heard it too, but made no sign. Dinner was over, the 
 farmer Ht his pipe of Virginian tobacco. Janet called the 
 servant-girl, and was soon busied in clearing the table. 
 Richard went to the fire hoping to be able to say some 
 word of dread that should sting the old grandfather in 
 revenge for Miss EHzabeth's sarcasm. But gaffer was 
 asleep and snoring heavily, so he kept his spleen to himself. 
 Elizabeth had left the room with Jim. 
 
 " There are three oaks and a blackthorn thicket, Jim, on 
 the path to ' Western Town ' wood, slip across and hide 
 there, thee knowest well how to do it ; Master Richard 
 meets Tammie there in half an hour. He always has evil 
 in hand. Find it out, Jim, it may save thy sister from 
 wrong. But let him not see thee." 
 
 " I'll do it all right. Betty, never fear." And he was 
 out of the yard and across the lane just before Richard 
 came out. 
 
 " Ah, Mistress Elizabeth, take care of thy old grand- 
 father. Zack's nose is a long one for witch or Papist." 
 
 "Sure, Master Richard, so handsome a young man as 
 Master Granville should have been at Trebursey to-day 
 
 H
 
 114 Sir Bevill 
 
 with his brother. How could they have overlooked so 
 noble a youth as Master Richard ? Well, well, we shall 
 have doings here when the young Squire makes Mistress 
 Grace his bride. 'Twill be a pair worth looking on." 
 
 "The young Squire does not seem to be too much 
 engrossed with his Grace at any rate ! He has left her for 
 other pastures." 
 
 " He might well go to see his friend, methinks. I suppose 
 he took his big man Payne with him ? " 
 
 " No, but he has sent for him now, great long-legged fool, 
 with no more brains than a sheep. He'll catch his head in 
 an oak like Absalom one of these days." 
 
 They were standing together in a comer of the yard, 
 almost, but not quite, out of sight of the house. There 
 was one window, the window of the wash-house, that over- 
 looked the corner where they stood. Elizabeth was a 
 beautiful girl, and Richard had ever an eye for beauty. 
 Truth and faith were strangers to his heart. He moved 
 closer to the girl ; she did not stir, but smiled sweetly on 
 him. 
 
 " What a pretty face thou hast, Betsy ! " 
 
 " Dost think so. Master Dick ? " 
 
 With the corner of her eye she glimpsed a face at the 
 wash-house window. 
 
 " One little Idss, Betty, and I'll choke old Zack before he 
 shall touch thy gaffer." 
 
 " Only one, Dick," sighed Elizabeth, and he gave her 
 two. She laughed and darted away. 
 
 Richard plumed himself on his invincible charm for 
 women, stroked his budding moustache, and sauntered 
 away to meet Betty's sister. 
 
 He did not see the sadd Betty wash her face where his 
 lips had touched, and scrub the place dry as she muttered, 
 '* Beast " and "Conceited ape."
 
 A fid Richard qitotes King James 1 1 5 
 
 There was a fine colour on Tamasine's face and brow 
 when she met her lover by the three oak trees and the 
 blackthorn bushes. Close to the path, between it and the 
 blackthorns, was a patch of oak scrub whose thick leaves 
 were just turning yellow. Richard came along the path 
 by the hedge, passed into the coppice, and paused opposite 
 the three oaks ; he was thinking too much of himself and 
 his own charms to look very carefully at the thicket ; and 
 Tamasine, as she came into the coppice from a cross-path, 
 was far too angry to look anywhere except for her lover, to 
 rate him for his faithlessness. So neither was aware of the 
 proximity of Jim, who if he pleased could almost have 
 touched them both as he crouched behind the scrub. 
 
 " r faith," she began at once, " thou art a pretty fellow 
 to go making love to my sister before my eyes." 
 
 " Exactly so, thou art right on both counts, sweet lassie. 
 I am a pretty fellow, thou hast said so before now, and I 
 kissed thy sister and fooled her to her silly heart's content 
 just because it was before thy pretty eyes. Dost not think 
 it just £15 well to blind her ? I frightened her up a bit 
 about gaffer, and then I stroked her down, and gentled 
 her. She's nought but a sparrow-hawk. Thou art a falcon, 
 sweet ; come to my trcssel, darling, thou needest neither 
 hood nor jess. I love thee only too well for my peace of 
 mind." 
 
 " Is that true, Richard, me and only me ? You love 
 only me ? " 
 
 " I swear it. But look here, darling, kiss me first. Ah ! 
 that was sweet ; I have but scant time for kisses to-day, 
 there is work ahead. I have to meet the said Master 
 Treague and arrange how to smoke out the old witch at 
 Coombe. Mistress Grace is bent on thwarting me, and I 
 mean to show her that I am not a man to be trifled with. 
 Her old father is a fool, and tries to stop Sir Bernarde from
 
 1 1 6 Sir Bevill 
 
 doing his duty. I must do it for him, and the day after to- 
 morrow we mean to have out old Mother Polsuth, and 
 perhaps her sister Grannie Paschowe as well, and see if they 
 can stand the ordeal of water'as laid down by his Majesty 
 the King by swimming in the big pool just below Coombe. 
 I warrant the lads '11 have some fun, and if she swims and 
 they burn her afterwards I shan't stop them. Gad, I should 
 like to see an old witch frying." 
 
 " Oh, Richard, how can you be so cruel ? I shan't love 
 you any more if you say such things. And dear old 
 Grannie Paschowe is a sweet old woman, and a great friend 
 of mine." 
 
 " And her little upstart of a granddaughter too, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 " Well, I don't dislike Liz. She's pert 'pon times, but 
 she is a bright little lass, and kind." 
 
 " Ah, yes, she is kind. She tried it on with me one day. 
 Oh, yes, she is very kind I allow, and would be kinder still 
 if I would let her." 
 
 " Richard, that is a lie. No, no, I'll hear no more. Liz 
 is true to Tony Payne. No, don't come nighst me, I won't 
 have it. Thee'st told me tii big lies this day, and thee'st 
 said cruel things about gaffer. I shall not meet thee again, 
 so there." 
 
 She was really angry now. The cruelty of his look as he 
 spoke of burning the old woman had shocked her. The 
 scene in the corner of the yard took a different colour; 
 he had lied about Lizzie, she couH not believe him, and 
 her love ebbed fast away, and — yes there was her 
 fath ernot a hundred yards away coming down to the 
 coppice. 
 
 " Quick, get away Richard. Father's close to us," and 
 she turned and fled by the cross-path along which she had 
 come, Richard went quickly on towards Western Town
 
 And Richard quotes King James 1 17 
 
 wood, and Jim lay close till his father had passed. Then 
 he ran back full of news to Elizabeth, 
 
 " It must be stopped, it must. It is too vile. And there's 
 only two that can stop it," she cried, "and that is the 
 young Squire and Tony." 
 
 "Squire's at Trebursey, Bet, Tony was sent for and 
 starts early to-morrow, I expect. At least the runner who 
 brought the message said at Stibb he was expected to- 
 morrow noon with horses at Launceston." 
 
 " You must take a letter from me to the young Squire, 
 Jim. He must come back and put an end to this horrid 
 work. Dost think they mean to work the mischief to- 
 morrow ? " 
 
 "Can't say. Bet ; he named no time. But I can find 
 out to-night if I go to Woodford. Write your letter and 
 let me have it. I'll go to Woodford this evening after work 
 and come back by Stowe and leave it with Tony. Now I 
 must be off to the east downs, over again Woodlands to 
 look up the hoggets." 
 
 Elizabeth turned back to the house intent on writing her 
 letter to the young Squire.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 " A TREATISE ON DEMONOLOGIE, BY JAMES I. 
 
 BOYISH conceit was so strong in Richard Granville's 
 character that it led him to imagine that both the 
 girls at Lea were deeply in love with him, and he 
 never gave it a thought that his far from innocent love- 
 making to the youngest girl might go a long way towards 
 upsetting his malignant plans. Pluming himself on his 
 cleverness he turned to the right, through Horse Park 
 wood and passing Forda Farm took the lane to the little 
 hamlet of Stibb where he hoped to find Master Treague. 
 At the forge he learned that Anthony Payne had been 
 sent for to meet Bevill at Launceston next day, and re- 
 joiced to think that he was rid of the giant of Stowe, whom 
 he specially hated. Nathan Cardew, the smith, was an 
 ardent sportsman, and at seasons when the forge was idle 
 would fly his hawk, or draw a badger with his wire-haired 
 terrier against any man. Broad-shouldered and burly, he 
 stood like a rock on his bandy legs which hardly showed 
 the massive calves below his leathern apron. Richard 
 thought it unwise to draw his opinion on witches, but 
 Nanthan seemed to have the same subject in his mind. 
 
 " Perhaps your worship can tell me what's the matter 
 with that there son of weckedness Zack Treague, a com'd 
 in here anon ravin again some old wumman. * Blast yer 
 tongue,' I ses to him, ' can't ye leave honest old women 
 alone ?' an a. said, ' Sinner, dost hold weth Jezebel an the
 
 ''A Treatise on Deinonologie'' 119 
 
 man o' lies ? ' ' Who's he ? ' ses I, an a said, ' The Devil 
 an his wife,' or some such traade. I can't mind oal his 
 nonsense. So I up and ses to he, 'Lookehere, Master 
 Treague, yii'm a-goin on bout other folks ! Dii e knaw 
 what other folks say o' yii ? Ef not I'll tell e,' fer I ciid'n 
 baide to hear un cussin honest people, ef so be as they be 
 old. So I ses, ' I were to Bradry fair t'other day an a 
 dacent man an's wife were tellin about thee. Thee'st bin 
 there tryin to buy sheep, and thee an they cudn' 'gree, 
 thee wast haggUn bout sixpence a head, and they said that 
 as they parted weth e, thee didst liik askant at they sheep, 
 and dree on em dayed next day. They say theest goat the 
 evil eye ! ! ' Yii shiid a seed he turn yaller and then hred, 
 an away to goo. Ha, ha, I put im goin that time." 
 
 Richard made a mental note of this information for 
 future use against Zachariah, in case he needed it. He had 
 a retentive memory for the failings of others. Wishing the 
 smith good afternoon, and better luck the next time he 
 tried to fly a hawk, together with the hope (uttered sneer- 
 ingly) that he had " recovered " the " half-redeemed falcon " 
 that had been " unjeathcred " last week, he turned away to 
 seek Master Treague, the big smith looking after him with 
 mingled feelings of respect for his station, and contempt 
 for his lack of kindliness, contrasting him therein with his 
 brother Bcvill, much to the former's discredit. 
 
 Richard found his ill-favoured friend and ally in the 
 cottage of a shepherd nearly a mile further off at Scad's 
 Hill. Here they concocted their i)lans in peace, for the 
 shepherd's wife was nearly stone deaf. They were to meet 
 two days hence at four in the afternoon, getting together 
 a good posse, take out old Mistress Polsuth and " try" her 
 at the big pool near the sea with the swimming ordeal. 
 And so they parted. 
 That he was hounding men on to commit murder did
 
 120 Sir Bevill 
 
 not seem to trouble the youth. His curiously constructed 
 moral nature seems, from the very first, to have been abso- 
 lutely deficient in that sense of honour and integritj' 
 which alone could have made his undoubted abiUty and 
 fearless courage sources of credit to himself and usefulness 
 to his country. Hyde was never less mistaken than when 
 he penned his bitter words against this unworthy brother 
 of Cornwall's favourite hero. The same spirit that, in after 
 days, allowed him to satisfy his conscience in accepting 
 honours and emolument from the Parliamentary party, and 
 then leading off the troops under his charge to aid the 
 King, enabled him to imagine himself justified in indulging 
 his love of sport at the expense of the happiness and even 
 the lives of others. The blatant rubbish of the Royal 
 pedant in his treatise on Demonologie gave colour and 
 sanction to the follies, ill-nature and cruelties of thou- 
 sands, who were, as a generation, only now calming 
 down from the unholy excitement of Smithfield fires. 
 His Majesty frightened the weak-minded by telling them 
 how the Devil instructed witches to make images of 
 those whom they desired, or were paid, to injure, which 
 images they tormented with fire or pricked with needles 
 or otherwise maltreated, till the person they repre- 
 sented perished with disease and inward incurable pains, 
 unless the witch were discovered and destroyed. To effect 
 this he proved from Scripture " that it was the will of God 
 that they should be put to death by fire, whether men or 
 women, old or young. He would slay all that sought unto 
 them, all who employed them, or even encouraged them. 
 He bade the justices accept any witnesses against them, 
 however base ; he would allow scarce any defence. He would 
 put them to the question by torture, or by the ordeal of 
 water — that is, by throwing the poor wretches into deep 
 water, if they sank they were innocent, but drowned ; if
 
 ^^ A Treatise on Denionologie'' 121 
 
 they swam, tliey only escaped the water to be burnt ahve 
 as undoubtedly guilty." The blasphemy to which this 
 miserable cult of witch-finding and witch trials gave rise, 
 together with the filth that was proclaimed in open court 
 before judges, magistrates, bishops, and divines, would be 
 perfectly incredible were not the miserable and disgusting 
 records actually to be found in the archives of that day. 
 Verily England required the purifying which she received : 
 for the name of the Almighty was taken in vain to injure 
 and vex and destroy, and if the Puritan in his earlier zeal 
 for reform and righteousness invoked too rashly the sacred 
 name and word, there was this to be said for him, that 
 after all he did but turn that language to a better and less 
 unholy use than the Stuart King of England. And then 
 surely, as every noble aspiration has its counterpart and 
 image of falseness and hypocrisy, so did there at this time 
 arise in the land men who traded for their own pockets 
 and lust of having, at one time on the superstitions and 
 weaknesses of their neighbours, and at another on their 
 sincere but too credulous acceptance of holy words for true 
 religion. 
 
 Young Richard Granville at an early age saw through 
 the hypocrite's mask of religion in Zachariah Treague, as 
 clearly as he recognised and despised the vulgar supersti- 
 tions of the ignorant in their belief of witchcraft, but he 
 only saw through them to use them for his own amusement 
 and to satisfy a cynical longing, that seems to have pursued 
 him through life, to injure and annoy his fellow creatures. 
 The pains he was at, and the skill with which he organised 
 this raid on two poor helpless old women were worthy of a 
 better cause. And yet he knew well that there was risk in 
 the undertaking, for Grannie Paschowc was a woman of 
 good repute in Coomlje, and her skill as housewife and 
 nurse was well known and recognised in both Kilkhampton
 
 1 22 Sir Bevill 
 
 and Morvvenstowe, in which latter parish the hamlet of 
 Coombe was situate. The men of Coombe were not 
 numerous, but they were a sturdy race and would doubt- 
 less defend the dame. Then there was Anthony Payne, 
 the giant of Stowe, to be reckoned with, to say nothing of 
 the smith at Stibb. But Anthony was away and so was 
 Bevill, whom Richard almost feared, if he can be said to 
 have feared any one. For his father he cared not two 
 straws in any case, but in this he knew that he should have 
 his sympathy, though not his help. So he and Treague, 
 like cruelty and hypocrisy walking hand in hand, together 
 with " Barnaby Dick," stirred up the farm-labourers 
 around, filled their minds with dread stories of the black art 
 and its terrors, and swore in some thirty or more to meet at 
 Coombe on the next day but one, invade Mistress Pas- 
 chowe's house, drag her sister to the great pool in the 
 river near the sea, and there subject her to the ordeal of 
 water, as sanctioned by the King. It was not a noble 
 enterprise, but it would annoy several people whom he 
 disliked and it afforded a prospect of sport. Bevill would 
 be furious at it, and that pleased him ; his big man would 
 be touched in a tender spot, and that delighted him, for he 
 owed the giant's love, Lizzie Paschowe, a heavy grudge for 
 scorning his advances. And above all it would vex Sir 
 George Smith and his daughter, both of whom he cordially 
 disliked.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 LADY JANE S ADVICE 
 
 SIR BERNARDE had a friend of early days, and one 
 well known to and esteemed by his father, a certain 
 John Exe, now Earl of Exmoor. He was considerably 
 the Knight's senior, and had married, only a few years before 
 Sir Bernarde, a lady of Queen Elizabeth's Court, and a per- 
 son of great consideration as well as a friend of the future 
 Knight of Stowe. Lord Exmoor had only one daughter, 
 Lady Jane Exe, the friend of Arabella Stuart. As this lady 
 was an only child and Lord Exmoor reputed to be very 
 wealthy, Sir Bernarde had conceived the happy idea that 
 his old friend's daughter would be a more desirable match 
 for his son Bevill than Grace Smith. He had learned also 
 from Mr. Gedie that she and her father were now at 
 Trebursey ; hence the eagerness to despatch his son from 
 the fair Grace's side to visit John Eliot at Mr. Gedie's 
 house. 
 
 The party there had been one of deep interest to Bevill 
 Granville. Not only was John Eliot there, but several 
 other leading men in thei)olitical world whose acquaintance 
 Bevill had made in London, whither he had gone after 
 taking his degree. But besides this, Eliot had been in 
 Parliament for the first time and was anxious to sound his 
 friend about coming forward to represent the county. The 
 scholarly Robert, son of Sir Edward Phclips, of Montacute 
 in Somerset, Master of the Rolls, was there. He also had
 
 1 24 Sir Bevill 
 
 been in Parliament for the first time in 1614. Lord Exmoor, 
 a sailor in his earlier days and a friend of Sir Richard 
 Granville, was a man of considerable influence in the west. 
 His estates lay on the borders of Somerset and Devonshire, 
 and though not a speaker, he took a keen interest in the 
 questions of the day. His daughter Jane was one of a set 
 who, in the last reign, aspired to a height of scholarship, 
 rare even among men of the day ; she wrote poetry, read 
 Greek plays with ease, and was inspired with the politics of 
 the men who surrounded the great Tudor Queen, Added 
 to these accomplishments, she possessed features of remark- 
 able beauty ; tall, and straight as a spear shaft, she held 
 herself, whether walking or riding, with that joyous com- 
 manding freedom which speaks of perfect health, and 
 fascinates, while it keeps admiring youth ever at arm's 
 length. If her chin, with all its delicate chiselling, was 
 just a thought too square, and if her dark eyebrows almost 
 met in their strong, straight line beneath her fair, open 
 brow, yet even these deflections from perfect beauty gave a 
 strong commanding sense of power to a very glorious face. 
 She it was who was standing by when Queen Elizabeth 
 vented her spleen on a young girl who had expressed a too 
 great eagerness for a married life to please her Majesty. 
 The maiden Queen looked round exultingly as she crushed 
 the country girl, who, as she said, " Was a bold one to own 
 her foolishness so readily." 
 
 " Methinks," added she, looking straight at Jane Exe, 
 " thou wilt look twice before such a leap." 
 
 Lady Jane was vexed in her soul to see the child from 
 her own west country so flouted before all the ladies of the 
 Court, and replied with crimson face, " Your Grace is a 
 better judge than I can be of the dangers of such a leap." 
 
 EUzabeth stared at her for a moment, called her a 
 " saucy minx," and passed on. Jane was only sixteen
 
 Lady Jane's Advice 125 
 
 then, and had mightily taken the fancy of her royal 
 mistress, or she would not have escaped so lightly. The 
 Lady Arabella Stuart was a witness to this passage of arms, 
 and became at once a firm friend of the Lady Jane, and, 
 until three years before the time of which we write, when 
 Lady Arabella was finally consigned to prison by James for 
 daring to marry Mr. WilUam Seymour, afterwards Duke of 
 Somerset, these two learned ladies had seen a great deal of 
 each other. 
 
 Bevill was nearly by ten years junior to the Lady Jane, 
 and although he had met her in London had never till now 
 been brought into close contact with her. It was a revela- 
 tion to him to find in a woman one who could cope with 
 his friend John Ehot, either in research of history or ques- 
 tion of politics. Her knowledge of the classics was equal 
 to his, and her theories of social reform were in accord 
 with Eliot's. In politics they differed widely. The lady 
 was an ardent admirer of the late Queen ; Tudor influence 
 and Tudor greatness held sway in her mind. 
 
 Eliot's wife, Rhadagund, was with her father, Mr. Gedie, 
 in the garden, John Eliot was standing at the bay window 
 of the eastern parlour with his back to the light. The 
 beams of the morning sun gUnted through the trees and 
 shining on his head were caught in the dark curls which 
 fringed his pale eager face. Bevill Granville, as he 
 sat within the room, looked up at his friend's face mar- 
 velling at its quiet, almost ethereal, beauty, framed in the 
 mellow sunlight which seemed to form a halo round his 
 head. Facing Eliot stood Jane Exe, her face radiant 
 with light, its clear olive complexion seeming to invite the 
 sun's fiercest rays to dwell and revel in her beauty. Her 
 eyes shone bright with excitement as she threw her hands 
 behind her, lifted her chin, and looked defiance at Eliot, for 
 his words did not please her and they were hard to answer.
 
 1 26 Sir Bevill 
 
 "Great affairs, dear lady," he was saying, "may well 
 be construed by applying to them the reasoning of lesser 
 issues. In private life, wherein do we gain the greater 
 power ? Is it by the pleasures of society, sweet though 
 they be, doubly sweet when we meet dear friends like thee, 
 and can speak freely heart to heart ? But for strength of 
 mind and soul, do we not seek them away and apart from 
 others ? As said Tacitus : ' Glory is heightened by distance, 
 virtue hath its dweUing on a hill ; it crowds not in the multi- 
 tude.' Just so the ruler, who would rule most strongly, Uves 
 apart. He who would gain estimation among men must gain 
 it by the ways of privacy and virtue, the two roads to 
 honour." 
 
 "Nay, but, good Mr. Eliot, the ruler of a great people 
 must be the people's friend, and live in the people's eye. 
 Her gracious Majesty Queen EUzabeth, sure, laid her 
 greatest stress and pains in seeking out, and winning by 
 contact with them, the love of all her subjects. Her person 
 and her work for them, and the glory of their land, were 
 known and familiar things." 
 
 " Aye," broke in Eliot, " and whatever is familiar is ever 
 cheap. That which wins longest and deepest admiration 
 is ever least seen. And in verity, dear lady, to what has 
 that familiarity of the great queen led ? It is true her 
 person they adored. But she is withdrawn, and do they 
 adore the throne ? I have sat but in one short Parha- 
 ment, but that has opened my ej^es. It is not the throne, 
 it is not the great ones of State. I have learned one thing, 
 and that shall I cling to as for my very hfe. It is this, 
 that the Commons of England come together neither to do 
 what the king commands, nor to abstain where he forbids 
 them, but to maintain the rights, the hberties, and the 
 privileges of the people of England. And thus will the 
 Commons not retrench, but advance the king's sovereignty
 
 Lady Janes Advice 1 27 
 
 and honour ; for that which conduces to the greatness, the 
 power, and the well-being of the land conduces also to the 
 greatness of the monarch." 
 
 " Art not putting the cart before the horse, Master 
 Eliot ? Had that great and immortal queen not met and 
 provided against the invasion of the Spaniard, where would 
 your Commons of England be now ? It was she who led, 
 she who commanded. Even on her sacred person she 
 donned a soldier's armour and set an example of valour 
 which was followed by every man and woman of the 
 nation ! " 
 
 " I grant her greatness, I grant her valour, I grant her 
 far-seeing genius. But, alas ! it depended on her, and when 
 she is removed, are we not become the plaything of the 
 world, without resources, without leaders, without honesty, 
 let alone honour, and all because we have to trust in one, 
 and the worthy, wise and leading one is not found ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is true, favourites and parasites lead the king 
 instead of following, 'Tis wrong, I grant, but he is king." 
 
 " Who made him king ? " 
 
 " God, of course. Once chosen, he is God's man." 
 
 " But if he be the people's choice, sure he is bound to 
 serve, not ruin, the people." 
 
 " Or what ? " she asked eagerly, 
 
 "Go," said Eliot, 
 
 "Anarchy," she almost shouted. "Better a hundred 
 times a foolish king than mob rule; rule of the scum. 
 Faugh ! " 
 
 " Fair lady, melhinks we have need of another queen." 
 
 He looked hard into her sparkling eyes as if to read her 
 heart. 
 
 "Well, I will confess it, Arabella Seymour would have 
 made a worthy ruler." , 
 
 " Yes, and Jane Exc would have stood beside the throne."
 
 1 28 Sir Bevill 
 
 At this moment a servant entered and gave Bevill to 
 understand that his man with four riding horses had arrived 
 from Stowe. 
 
 " Not thy big man, Master Gran\alle, of whom I have 
 heard ? A very giant, they say, and passing comely ! " 
 
 " Indeed, lady. I believe that Anthony Payne has come 
 with them. I ventured to ask so much of my good father, 
 and he is ever kind. May I ask you to see if there is one 
 fit for your ladyship to ride ? " 
 
 ''Ah, well," said John Eliot, "let us out and leave 
 politics. Horses and hounds give better exercise and music 
 than a Parliament." 
 
 In the stable-yard Tony stood stroking the head and ears 
 of Vulcan, while a groom was busy washing his legs. The 
 great horse heard the voice of Bevill, pricked up his ears 
 and whinnied a greeting. 
 
 " Noble, is he not ? " said Bevill. 
 
 " Oh, you beauty ! " cried Lady Jane, placing her hand 
 lightly on his massive quarters. 
 
 " Have a care of his heels, lady," said the groom 
 hastily. 
 
 " Nay, I have no fear of him. I was never bitten nor 
 struck by a horse." She stroked and gentled his arched 
 neck and the head which he bent down to greet her. 
 
 " Ah, Anthony," said Ehot, " I have not seen Vulcan 
 since our great run on the moor. Dost remember it, man ? 
 I warrant the Varmint hath not forgotten thee." 
 
 " Verily, sir. Master Tite and I became like twin brothers 
 that day. He mistooked my butes for his'n next mornin 
 an a' most got lost in 'em. I seed his ears peepin out an 
 saved 'en from a untimely death." 
 
 Lady Jane desired that the giant of Stowe should be 
 presented to her, and as she lookfed hira over from head to 
 foot, she heard Ehot mutter :
 
 Lady Jane s Advice 129 
 
 " A Tudor, every inch, be it horse or man she must needs 
 rule him." 
 
 " So you think, John Eliot, Ah, I forget, you own 
 allegiance to none." 
 
 Mr. Gedie and his daughter entered the yard, and Bevill 
 invited the Lady Jane to come into the stable and see the 
 soft-paced ambling genet which his father had sent for 
 her. 
 
 She looked it over, patted it for a moment, and turned 
 away. 
 
 " May I ride Vulcan, Master Granville, when I ride with 
 you ? " she asked suddenly. 
 
 "Surely, madam, you shall choose your steed, but it is 
 only right for me to tell you that Vulcan is not young, and 
 is very sudden and masterful in his ways with those who 
 know not his moods." 
 
 "If he is masterful, sir, I would like to show him his 
 mistress. I have ridden before to-day." 
 
 " God's truth, madam, I doubt it not ; but I would not 
 have you hurt, nor him either, by any mischance ; an old 
 stallion is not always a safe palfrey for a young maid." 
 Bevill flushed deeply as he spoke, there was a domineering 
 ring in her voice which he resented. A touch, too, of 
 disappointment in the thought that his favourite should 
 tower over and dwarf him as he rode. Lady Jane felt the 
 rebuff, and it pleased her. She loved the lad's outsj)oken 
 strength, so little resembling the pliant flattery which for 
 some dozen years had palled upon her ears. With a 
 softening look in her eyes she answered : 
 
 " Good sooth, fair sir, it shall be as you ordain, I will 
 venture no experiment with your old favourite. But do 
 not swear at mc again. I love not to hear tlic Holy Name 
 appealed to for a trifle. Yet she whom I most admire did 
 but too often swear by God's Son, as her father did by His 
 
 I
 
 I -zo Sir Bevill 
 
 splendour. Yet, 'tis an evil habit, for one has said that 
 ' yea and nay ' suffice." 
 
 They parsed out into the yard to find that the rest of 
 their part^' had left. Anthony Payne alone remained 
 standing by Vulcan. 
 
 " I have a message for thee, Master Bevill, from a maid 
 thou knowest well." 
 
 " And who may that be ? " said Bevill, and he felt the 
 conscious blood rise to his forehead, and knew that his 
 companion was regarding him with interest. Of course it 
 must be from Grace, but at that moment it was not Grace 
 that filled his mind. 
 
 " 'Tis from that there maid of Grills to Lea, thee know'st 
 her well, maister. She be criiel fond o' thee." 
 
 Lady Jane laughed outright. 
 
 " Give me the letter, man, and don't stand there staring 
 like a stock-fish." For Anthony was fingering the missive 
 which he had just drawn from his doublet. 
 
 Bevill took it with a muttered expression of interest, 
 relief, and disgust, which did not escape the lady by his 
 side. 
 
 " Dost know the matter, Tony ? Is it serious ? 
 
 "Aye, maister, serious enough to them as it concerns, 
 though it may not be to the great and mighty." This with 
 a somewhat vicious look at Lady Jane. Her laugh had 
 jarred on his ear. He worshipped Mistress Grace; but 
 who was this fine London damsel that was taking his 
 master from the place where he ought to be, and the 
 place, too, where he could protect his own maid Lizzie at 
 Coombe ? The big man was vexed, and his anger showed 
 gruffly in his massive face. 
 
 " You have matter to settle with your servant ; I will 
 leave you and seek Rhadagund," said Lady Jane. 
 
 " Nay, dear lady, an thou wilt stay a moment it would
 
 Lady Jane s Advice 131 
 
 help me to know what should best be done. Take Vulcan 
 in, Tony, and come to me when you have eaten, for I fear 
 I must send thee back, and — well, come soon, and I will 
 tell thee." He could not make up his mind to disappoint 
 his friend Eliot, nor could he tear himself at once away 
 from this new star which had arisen on his horizon and 
 shed such a brilliant light. 
 
 So Anthony took Vulcan to his stall and fed him before 
 he turned to the house to feed himself. His twenty-five 
 miles' ride had made him keen for manchet and pasty, and 
 a taste of that ale which he loved. 
 
 Bevill found a sympathetic Hstener as he told the con- 
 tents of Elizabeth Grills' stiff but graphic letter. Did 
 Lady Jane believe in witches ? Had she read King 
 James' book ? Was it all utter fraud of man, or a device 
 of the Devil ? 
 
 The lady had read the King's book ; she believed the 
 plain words of Holy Writ : people there doubtless were 
 who sought the aid of Satan and found it, and more who 
 pretended to discover the practice and the practisers of the 
 black art, and made an evil living out of the credulity of 
 their neighbours. 
 
 He explained to her some of his difficulties : his father's 
 attitude, and passed as lightly as he could over his brother's 
 malice. ^ 
 
 " If you return," she said, " you will for certain do that 
 which will anger your father, besides arousing your 
 brother's ill-will. Probably he is only mischievous now, 
 and it would be ill to make him spiteful towards yourself. 
 If you have a few stout men who would protect the old 
 women, and could send your servant back in time to bring 
 them to the spot, it might be a better and surer defence 
 than returning yourself." 
 
 As this opinion jumped with his own desires, Bevill folt
 
 132 Sir B evil I 
 
 sure that it was most wise ; so he determined to despatch 
 his giant back to Stowe to warn a few trustworthy friends 
 to be at Coombe to protect the women. The smith and 
 Master Grills, with one or two of his sons and a few 
 Coombe lads, would, he thought, with Anthony at their 
 head, make short work of twice their number. 
 
 Anthony came to him after he had amply replenished 
 his inner man, told his master all he knew, and besought 
 him, almost with tears, to return to Stowe and use his 
 authority to stop the iniquity. 
 
 Bevill replied that he had considered the matter care- 
 fully, and thought it best to remain as his father wished 
 him to do, and that there would be no difficulty in getting 
 together men who would, with Anthony, read a lesson to 
 any who interfered with Dame Paschowe and her sister. 
 Anthony must therefore go to the farm close by and 
 borrow a stout cob, upon which he could return when all 
 was quiet.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 TWO QUARTS OF SACK DELAY THE WORK OF RESCUE 
 
 WITH anything but a quiet mind the big man tramped 
 to find a steed. Who of all men should he encounter 
 outside Trcbursey gate but Tite the Varmint ? 
 
 " 'Tis thee, my little man, sure 'nuf," quoth the dwarf as 
 he seized Tony by the hand. " I heerd tell in Lanson as a 
 giant, as worn't a show one, wer' gone down along the 
 Trebursey Road, an' I made sure 'twer ' thee, my dear. 
 How be 'e, how be 'e ? " 
 
 " I be terble bad, Mars' Tite, I be ; but I be glad to see 
 'e. I'vea-been hurted in my tendrist part." 
 
 " An' so have I, dear man. Let's goo an' 'av it out in a 
 quiet place over a quart or two o' sack that I can tell 'e of. 
 Lor' sake, I be glad to see 'e in trubble, 'cos I be saame, 
 an' 'tis frenly like." 
 
 "Can't see no frenliness in trubbles, one an' one maaks 
 tii, an' tii trubbles wusscr'n one, but a cupi)lc o' quarts o' 
 sack, ef it's gud, may maak things a bit easier." 
 
 Along the road they went, and on the outskirts of Laun- 
 ceston they found the quiet place wotted of by Tite. In 
 the parlour the two worthies sat themselves down to discuss 
 good sack. 
 
 " 'Tis like these," began Tite, " Maister got drunk, an' 
 t'other got drunk, an' then I got drunk tii, an' there was a 
 bit of a scrabble there to Tavistock, an' Maister gicd me a 
 black eye, an' I gied he a scat on th' nose an' 'c sword 'c'd
 
 1 34 Sir Bevill 
 
 knock my 'ed off. So I corned to Lanson to see my gal as 
 I'm a-cortin', an her says, ' Yii'm blackguard, I shan't ha' 
 nort to do weth 'e.' Well, I smacked her chops an' corned 
 away, but tes a poorish job to vight maister and smack yer 
 gal all saame day." 
 
 " Who's thy maister ? " 
 
 " Wy, Bill Coryton, thee know'st un ; 'e's all raight w'en 
 'e's sober, but 'e's a briite w'en 'e's drunk." 
 
 " An' so be most on us, therefore this 'ere quart's my 
 lastest one, fur I be bent on vengeance. That there 
 sneakin' devil of a Puritan shall veel my visties sure's my 
 name's Tony Payne. Wilt come wi' me an' see me do it ? 
 An' I want a horse to ride there." 
 
 " Won't I jest come, an' I can tell 'e where thee canst 
 borrer a small thick horse as'll car thee, and I've got a bit 
 of a pony in Lanson as b'longs to my gal." 
 
 "She won't let thee ha' it ef so he's thee's told trii an' 
 smacked her." 
 
 "Waan'tshe? I'll teach 'er, a ciidn't smack er faace 
 cos a ciidn' reach up : her's tail's a maypole. I laike a tall 
 maid. Her faather's got a horse an' us'll taak he, weth 
 leave or wethout it." 
 
 " But yii said as yii'd smacked her chops an' now yii 
 says as yii caan't reach her faace; I be feard yii'm tellin' 
 laise." 
 
 " Bain't tellin' no laise ; tell 'e, I sed I smacked 'er chops, 
 an' so I ded, but I dedn' say as they wer' the chops of 'er 
 faace — there now ! " 
 
 The sack was drunk, and paid for after a friendly 
 wrangle as to who should have the honour, and the friends 
 marched side by side into Launceston. 
 
 Now, as ill-luck would have it, Launceston had been 
 visited by a party of mountebanks, who, among other 
 entertainments, were exhibiting a fat woman and a
 
 Tivo Quarts of Sack delay the JVork 135 
 
 dwarf. Tite, who had passed unnoticed when by himself, 
 could not escape the public gaze now. He was contrasted 
 with the seven feet six of Anthony Payne, and no sooner 
 had they reached the street opposite the entrance to the 
 castle, than a mob of lads and girls at the corner began 
 to shout, " Here ! here ! these be the show got loose," and 
 in a few moments they were surrounded by a gaping 
 good-humoured crowd. A large woman seized Tite by the 
 collar and said, " Let's look at thee. Thee bee'st the fat 
 woman's son, bain't thee ? " 
 
 "Let go, I say, thee damned old bawd," shouted Tite. 
 " Scat her head, Tony, do 'e for sake'ssake." 
 
 Tony pushed her back and she let go, but some one in 
 the crowd threw a dead cat in his face, and as he turned 
 the woman whom he had pushed seized his foot from 
 behind and threw him to the ground. The crowd shouted, 
 five or six rough lads kicked the prostrate giant, and one 
 gave him a blow on the head which made him feel silly. 
 The fall coming so soon after a meal with strong ale, when 
 he had fasted for hours, to which were added two quarts of 
 sack, was all too much for poor Tony. The blow on his 
 head was not a heavy one, but it rang in his ears like a 
 peal of church bells ; he stumbled to his feet, swung his 
 great arms round wildly and rushed across the street. 
 Tite seized him by the arm and guided him through the 
 wooden doorway which led to the old Saxon-built castle. 
 The crowd, which now numbered over a hundred, most of 
 whom had not the faintest idea of what was going on 
 paused outside in the street. Tite stood in the door-way 
 and scoffed loudly at his enemies, till a tall female form 
 appeared in the road on the outskirts of the mob, at sigiit 
 of whom Tite fled. It was his "gal," and he feared she 
 had seen him. 
 
 " Come away, Tony, we can get out t'other side."
 
 1 36 Sir Bevill 
 
 Tony slammed the door in the face of the mob and 
 followed the dwarf. The enemy at first was under the 
 impression that the giant meant to defend the doorway, and 
 hung back for quite a minute. Then an adventurous boy 
 pushed the door open, and, seeing no one, ran in, calling to 
 the rest to follow. This they did with much shouting. 
 Tite had taken the wrong turn, and, instead of heading for 
 the other gate, had led the way to the old castle wall ; 
 hearing the shout of the crowd he scrambled through a 
 gap. The crowd followed the youth, taking for granted 
 that they had made for the other entrance. 
 
 Tony lay down half dazed and tried to think where he 
 was, and what he had done, and for the life of him he 
 could remember nothing. The old castle towered above 
 him, and he kept fancying that it was falHng to crush him. 
 He gave himself up for lost, closed his eyes, and fell into a 
 heavy sleep. Tite sat by him, trembling for a while in 
 every hmb ; but at last the sound of voices died away, the 
 crowd, which had no particular object in hunting them, 
 soon dispersed. 
 
 An hour passed, and still Tony slept a heavy unwhole- 
 some sleep, snoring at times like the bass notes of a pedal 
 organ. Attracted by this awe-inspiring sound, the tall 
 lady whose chops had been smacked, and no doubt 
 required the fresh breeze of the castle wall to refresh and 
 console her injured feelings, appeared on the scene from the 
 opposite side. Anthony was aroused from his slumber by 
 the appalling words uttered in a shrill voice : 
 
 " You Uttle devil ! " 
 
 "Whose a-callin' me names ?" he said in a gruff, sleepy 
 voice. 
 
 " You, ye great hulkin' elephant, who spoke to you ? " 
 
 " Get up, Tony, here be my young wumman." 
 
 " Your young woman, indeed," said the shrill voice.
 
 Two Quarts of Sack delay the Work 137 
 
 Tony had not set eyes on her yet. " Your young woman, 
 am I, you half-made imp of Satan ? I should like to know 
 how I became your property, ye drunken black-eyed piece 
 of impedence ? " 
 
 Tony raised himself to his feet and looked down at the 
 angry lady with a benignant smile ; he only said, " Yii'm a 
 buty." 
 
 The lady dropped him a most gracious courtesy. For 
 certain beauty had no abiding-place among her features. 
 She was tall but unshapely, wisps of yellowish hair 
 struggled out from the hood which covered her head ; her 
 eyes were small and beady, very close together and looking 
 still closer by the way in which she wrinkled her brows. 
 After dropping her profound recognition of the compli- 
 ment she had received, she stood with a hand on each hip, 
 ready for any emergency. 
 
 "What do 'e stan' glazin' there for?" inquired Tite. 
 " Cusn't thee bend down an' gi'e thy future lord and master 
 a buss ? " 
 
 " Kiss thee ! " screamed the lady, " thee'st no more 
 manners than a pisky-ridden colt. Where ever did'st thee 
 pick up wi' such a respectable friend as this gentleman 
 here ? As if I dcdn' know a gentleman when I seed un, an' 
 I a lady born an' bred, thee little unsignifican' toad." 
 
 "Fair madam," said Tony, "'tis trii that he bain' t a 
 giant, but I be uncommon grateful to these little man ; 
 he've just saved my life and I owe him thanks. We've bin 
 set upon and ill-used. If yer ladyshij) wud only take us to 
 your house and provide us wi' horses we should be most 
 grateful and will bring them back safe again. 1 serve th» 
 Worshipful Master Bevill Granville, and he requested me 
 to raide at once to Stowe." 
 
 Tony had put on his best company manners, and his 
 court language, so to speak, recognising the importance
 
 1 38 Sir Bevill 
 
 of getting off to Stowe without further delay. The tall 
 woman was propitiated and led the way to her father's 
 house. Thence Tite, on a small moor pony, with Tony 
 mounted on the father's cob, left Launceston before 
 sunset intent on the rescue of Granny Paschowe, and the 
 " creeming " of that " sneaking devil of a Puritan " 
 Zachariah Treague.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 ANTHONY LOSES HIS WAY IN A STORM 
 
 THE light was fading out of the sky when Anthony and 
 his small friend came in sight of Dolsdown Inn, eight 
 miles out of Launceston. A bright sunny morning sky 
 had given way to a heavy, leaden mass of black clouds which 
 hung over the west. Low growls of distant thunder vibrated 
 in the air, though not a drop of rain had fallen ; the close 
 stillness told upon the horses, so much so that Tony's cob 
 was in a perfect lather, and gave such signals of distress 
 that he was fain to consign her to the stables of the inn 
 and seek supper and quarters there for the night. 
 
 Next morning he was out early to see after his too easily 
 tired steed. He found the poor beast in a sorry condition ; 
 being stirred up, the cob tried to stand, but lay down 
 again and groaned. To Tite, who appeared at the door, 
 he called : 
 
 " Her be in a parlous state, Varmint, an' no mistake, 
 What 1)6 I to du ? " 
 
 The innkeeper looked in and advised bleeding at once, 
 but none there possessed a fleam, nor skill to use one had 
 one been there. A farmer came in and said 'twas colic ; 
 the publican vowed it wcis stoppage of the wind ; Titc con- 
 sidered that it was surely glandered, an opinion which put 
 the landlord into a cold sweat, for his colt in the next stall, 
 just taken up from grass, would surely take the infection. 
 They bathed the poor i)rutc's head, his stomach and his
 
 I40 Sir Bevill 
 
 legs ; they poured brandy down his throat, they drew a hot 
 iron down his flank, which only made him jump up and 
 kick feebly at the party in general. 
 
 By this time it was midday, thunder roared now and 
 again, and heavy spats of rain fell at intervals. Tony was 
 sore perplexed; to lose the cob spelt pecuniary rum, to 
 stay where he was, ruin to his Lizzie and her grandmother. 
 Fourteen miles separated him from Stowe, and to-morrow 
 was the fatal day fixed by Richard Granville for his witch- 
 hunt. How he cursed the boy ! How he cursed Zachary 
 Treague. Even Bevill came in for hard thoughts, if not 
 words. What business had he to leave his beautiful maid 
 at Stowe, and wanton with that tall, dark-grained hussy 
 from London ! She had the evil eye, and had clearly 
 witched his master from his fealty to Grace. So cursing, 
 and so doubtingly despairing, he went into the inn for food. 
 He ate and drank and was not comforted. 
 
 "Thee must stay here, Tite, an' dii thy best; whatever 
 happens I will bear half the loss. I must walk to Stowe 
 these fery night." 
 
 Tite agreed, and promised to ride his pony to Stowe if the 
 cob recovered. 
 
 So Tony, with a heavy heart, started on his walk. Nor 
 had he proceeded far before he wished himself back at the 
 inn. The rain fell in sheets, filling the air. The thunder 
 rolled and re-echoed, flash succeeded flash in rapid succes- 
 sion. The hghtning seemed to him like the plague of old 
 in Egypt, it ran along the ground. He was off the beaten 
 track now, and failed to regain it. Wide, open expanses of 
 moor surrounded him. Still he plunged on, now up to his 
 knees in mire, now just on the brink of a black pool, into 
 which yellow streamlets of the clay-stained flood were 
 pouring. He turned to the left to escape the pool and 
 wandered on, it seemed to him, for hours.
 
 Aiithony Loses His IVay 141 
 
 Suddenly the ground seemed to rise before him ; a vivid 
 flash revealed a dark mass looming up in front. Tony put 
 his hand to his head. Had he gone mad ? Was he again 
 beneath the old massive keep of Launceston Castle ? But 
 the rain beat in his face, and he was bUnded again. Then 
 came a lull, another flash, and sure enough not a hundred 
 yards off was a grey church tower. Was it possible ? 
 Could he have reached Kilkhampton ? Was any other 
 tower so high ? He groped his way against the bhnding 
 storm. 
 
 Then all at once through the riot of the elements there 
 came to his ears sounds of human voices raised in distress or 
 anger. Tony turned, listened, took a few steps towards the 
 voices ; from whomsoever they proceeded he felt that he 
 could surely gain information as to the locality. An open 
 gateway was close to him. The next flash revealed a small 
 enclosure, and one or more figures in the corner furthest 
 from where he stood, whether of human beings, sheep or 
 cattle he could hardly tell, but he made towards them. 
 The roar of the thunder seemed to shake the very ground, 
 while the rain torrent beat in his eyes. Holding his hands 
 out before him, Anthony walked slowly across the meadow. 
 He paused to hear the shrill tones of a female voice. 
 
 "Tes death an' destruction I tell 'ee, Job, an' thee 
 standest there like a stock-fish. Death an' destruction, an' 
 all thy larnin' won't save the dear old cow. Wat's the giid 
 o' thee, I'd like to know." 
 
 "Silence, woman," replied a husky male voice, "Man 
 can't control the bolt of Jove." 
 
 " Don't know nought about thy Joves, nor thy bolts. 
 Thee'st got a rope, why do'sn't thee try and pull out th' 
 old cow afore hcr's dead ? " 
 
 The lightning flashed again, and a curious couple stood 
 revealed to Tony's wondering eyes. The man was small,
 
 142 Sir Bevill 
 
 with long nose and longer chin, which looked as if it were 
 thrust half a yard in front of him ; his bent and crooked 
 fingers grasped a long rope, part of which was wound 
 round his spare frame and black garments, shining now 
 with rain. The woman looked at first sight to be abso- 
 lutely naked ; she had gathered her grey dress over her 
 shoulders and head, and the rain having soaked her other 
 garments, they were driven by the wind so closely round 
 her body that in the dim and lurid light she seemed unclad. 
 
 " What's up, neighbours, what's up ? " roared Anthony. 
 " Hast thee lost thy senses to stand here gapin' at the 
 storm, or the cow, or the meadow hedge ? " 
 
 "Oh, sir, good sir, if so be as thou beest a kind an' 
 strong man, I do pray thee help out this here cow, her's 
 surely stogged in the mire. I told my old man as there 
 were a mire there, an' ef rain should come, that our cow 
 would surely get stogged, an' stogged her be, an' her'll 
 dale, an' I'm a ruin'd wumman. He's no more sproile nor 
 a cheel. Thee has'n, Job, an' thee knows it." 
 
 " What's come to the cow, maister ? Gie me thy rope." 
 
 The old man unwound himself like a human corkscrew, 
 and Tony took the rope. 
 
 " What's in there ? " he queried. 
 
 "Cow and calf," replied the man. "As near as I can 
 judge approximately, the calf has died in the water of 
 exhaustion. The water is not deep, my big friend, but 
 there is a mire or bog-hole in the corner, into which the 
 cow must have sunk following her foolish offspring. They 
 are all the same. When my wife's only son gets a-drinking 
 in the pot-house, my cow — that's my wife — will e'en follow 
 her calf there, and make the mire worse for both of them." 
 
 " Hold thy noise and help this giid neighbour piill out 
 the dear old cow," retorted his wife. "Surely the Lord 
 have a-sent un."
 
 Anthony Loses His IVay 143 
 
 Anthony waded into the pool. It was not deep at first, 
 and the ground seemed sound, but before he could reach 
 the poor miserable cow, he found his feet sinking in the 
 clay. Anthony was no fool. He knew his strength, and 
 he knew the sight of that which was beyond human sinew 
 and muscle. Throwing down the rope, he retraced his 
 steps to the gateway ; the gate lay on the ground as he 
 expected. Lifting it with both hands over his head he 
 returned to the corner of the field. 
 
 A gleam of light through broken clouds and a momentary 
 lull of the storm of rain showed him the dead calf Ijdng by 
 the hedge, and the poor wretched cow sunk all but her head 
 and a Hne of dark which denoted back and tail. Laying 
 the gate carefully as close to the cow's flank as possible, he 
 stood upon it, pressing it to the ground underneath the 
 water. 
 
 " Hand me the rope, friend, and be quick," he cried. 
 
 The old man threw it feebly to him. He kneeled upon 
 the gate now, and plunging his long arms in the water 
 pushed the rope beneath the old cow's chest, and after 
 many a fierce struggle with the bog and clay drew it 
 out the other side. He looped the rope now round the 
 animal, leaving large room in the loop, and drew it over 
 his own head and shoulders. Then slowly rising, with his 
 feet upon the gate to prevent them sinking, he seized with 
 one hand the horn and with the other the tail of the beast, 
 and gave a mighty heave. Great as was his strength, 
 seven hundred pounds' weight of cow-flesh, witli the added 
 suction of the mire, was a task for Hercules, and Tony's 
 back and neck felt as if both must split before he raised the 
 cow ; but she had moved, a few inches only it was true, but 
 he had moved her. He leaned to the left and the poor 
 beast moaned, and her right knee showed in the water, 
 Oh ! if she could only raise a foot. Tony felt his strengtli
 
 1 44 Sir Bevill 
 
 giving way. He was wearied almost to death. Again 
 another mighty heave. He felt it was his last effort, and 
 Id ! he stood upright, the cow literally hanging in the air, 
 and he staggered with her to land and fell. The poor 
 creature fell also, and there they lay in the shallow slush 
 side by side : 
 
 The old man seemed paralysed. He raised his hands to 
 heaven and cried, 
 
 " Glory, glory, 'tis Hercules himself returned to earth. 
 Seed thee ever the like, woman ? He stood there holding 
 thy cow up in mid-air, as 'twere a child, 'tis surely 
 Hercules, son of great Jove himself." 
 
 " Oh lor ! man, hold thy jaw an' lead up th' old cow to 
 shippen, and' ha' done wi' thy Joves; us have had enough 
 of 'em for one day." 
 
 The old man took hold of the rope and placed his 
 crooked fingers on Tony's shoulder. 
 
 " Rise, friend, I prithee, and come with me to shelter." 
 
 He removed the rope from the giant's neck and urged the 
 cow to her feet ; after a few struggles she rose and so did 
 Tony, feeling as feeble as a child. 
 
 " Where be I, man ? an' what do 'e call this place ? and 
 what's yon church ? 
 
 The rain was falling less heavily now, and the church 
 and tower were full in view. 
 
 " Dost thee not know Week St. Mary tower ? " 
 
 "Oh, my God! be I only at Mary Week? and 'tis 
 evening an' I be miles away. Lord help me and Lord help 
 them as have need of help," and the great man staggered 
 and almost fell to the ground. 
 
 " What ails thee, friend, come along and get to fire, or 
 the cold and wet will search our bones." 
 
 " Doth Master Pokinhorne live here ? " he asked feebly. 
 " If so, mebbee he'll dry me an' send me on."
 
 Anthony Loses His Way 145 
 
 " Job," cried the old woman, " I'll lead th' old cow an' 
 thee canst show the dear good man the ' Vargin's Arms,' 
 an' come back quick an' change thj' clothes. Master 
 Pokinhorne will tend him an' we'll thank him to-morrow." 
 
 Poor Anthony was nearly as far from Stowe as when he 
 started on his walk. 
 
 His fight with the storm had been even more severe than 
 he was conscious of, and now he had used up every reserve 
 of even his mighty strength. Following his queer little guide 
 he found the village inn. Here he was known as Sir 
 Bernarde Granville's giant, and every comfort that the 
 house could afford was at his service. There was no help 
 for it ; the landlord assisted him to strip off his clothes, 
 gave him the four largest blankets the house afforded, 
 and rolled in these he fell asleep after a quart of hot 
 sack. 
 
 All that evening and through the night and all next day 
 the storm continued. At intervals the thunder roared 
 overhead, but did not wake him. He would toss and groan 
 in his sleep, but still sleep on, till the second night came, 
 and with the ceasing warfare of the elements Tony sank 
 into a quiet refreshing slumber. 
 
 Just before sunrise on the third day from leaving 
 Trebursey, Anthony Payne woke up to consciousness, 
 mightily refreshed in body, but sorely perplexed in mind 
 as to locality and dates. 
 
 "What do 'e caal these here place, maister ? " he in- 
 quired as he rose stark from the blankets on the floor. The 
 landlord grinned as he handed his dry clothing to the 
 mighty varlct of Stowe. 
 
 "Well, Master Payne, simmy yu'vc smaal mcm'ry fer 
 your friends. I be Nath Pokinhorne wcth whom yu'vc 
 a-had a bout or tii o' wrastclin', times an' again. Don't 'c 
 mind me ? " 
 
 K
 
 1 46 Sir Bevill 
 
 " Ees, Nath, ees, to be sure ; but this bain't the Vargin's 
 Arms at Mary Week ? " 
 
 " I'm vancying 'tis, Tony." 
 
 " An' es this day Friday, Nath ? Now take yer time, 
 man, an' don't hurry. Make certain sure, fer 'tes im- 
 portant." 
 
 "Friday! Man ahve, Friday wer' yesterday, ^Friday 
 an' th' week he never a leke,' as the sayin' is, an' I hope to 
 God as I'll never see another Friday like that there one as 
 we've just gon thrii and fer matter o' that Thursday like- 
 wise. Eh, what's the matter, man ahve ? " 
 
 " Oh, oh," groaned Tony, " I'm a undone man, I be 
 ruined, Nath, body 'n soul. Oh, God damn the whole 
 set!" 
 
 "What ever es it?" And Anthony told of the witch- 
 hunt and the danger to those he loved, and, as he told, the 
 giant cried tears of bitter rage and sorrow. 
 
 "Cheer up, man. 'Twill come round, yii'll see. I tell 'e 
 'twer not possible for Hvin' man to conduct no such project 
 yesterday. They've a-put it off for certain. An' this day 
 they will try an' make up for it. Now 'tes early. Thee an' 
 me will ride there an' see fair play, Tony, my boy. Thee 
 shall ride my black mare, Kitty, an' I'll ride th' old hoss 
 wi' the grey streak, an' we'll be there by ten o'clock sure 
 as these be the Vargin Mary's Arms."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THK RESCUE 
 
 IT was perfectly true and correct as Landlord Pokinhornc 
 predicted. The witch-hunt was postponed. Late on 
 Friday evening when the thunder ceased and the sun 
 was setting fiery red behind the Atlantic Ocean, Barnaby 
 Dick ran round to warn the lads to be at Coombe by nine 
 on Saturday morning. 
 
 Richard Granville had done his best, and done it 
 cleverly enough too, to contrive the absence of such men as 
 would be likely to interfere combatively with his project. 
 Barnaby Dick had framed a specious protest for jx^rsuading 
 his father to start on a fool's errand that morning toStibb, 
 while Lizzie's father had gone to Stowe to put up some 
 boarding in a shippcn. Samson Yarde, the miller, was a 
 dangerous man, but it was not easy to get him out of the 
 way. " Floury," the miller's man, was in the swim and 
 had undertaken to do his best to keep the miller within 
 sound of his grinding-stoncs, though how to stop the very 
 open cars of the miller's wife he knew not, nor, as a 
 matter of fact, knew any one else in Coombe. 
 
 Rather before nine on that eventful morning lads began 
 to straggle into Coombe, four or five came over tin; 
 northern cliff by Cleave, a few more down the valley, while 
 anotiicr detachment apfjcared from the warren on the south. 
 Nor had they long to wait for leaders. Zachary Treaguc 
 came with the latter group, haranguing them as he walked.
 
 1 48 Sir Bevill 
 
 " Thus saith the prophet, ' Woe unto the double-minded 
 and to him that looketh two ways.' No shirking, men, no 
 half measures, lads. The Lord is on our side. The accursed 
 thing must be dragged forth to the light, yes, and tried by 
 water. The Lord sitteth above the water-flood. If this 
 devil-inspired witch be innocent, then the Lord will save 
 her. If she be guilty, as I well know she is, we will execute 
 a righteous judgment on her. ' They that sup kail with the 
 devil,' saith our great, and wise, and glorious Monarch, 
 ' have need of long spoons.' She will need a longer spoon 
 than any she possesseth to escape to-day. Unless, indeed, 
 she escaped in that storm of yesterday, which I opine 
 the devil raised to warn her of her approaching fate. 
 But Noo ! she is in her sister's house, I am assured. 
 Noo," and his beard seemed to sink to his waist. " She 
 hath been delivered into my hands, bless the Lord, and our 
 flocks and herds, yea, our wives and children shall be saved 
 from the power of the Evil One ! " 
 
 Thus exhorting and blaspheming did Mr. Treague arrive 
 at Coombc. 
 
 At the corner, where the stream crossed the road from 
 Stowe, Richard Granville emerged from the wood. 
 
 "Well done, Mr. Treague; well done, good man! 
 Gather the lads and go straight to the house ; I will meet 
 you down the stream, near the pool." 
 
 The concerted cry was raised in answer to a shrill whistle, 
 and in a few minutes the house of Widow Paschowe was 
 surrounded by about forty men and lads — a rude, incon- 
 gruous crew. Some gypsies had joined for mischief, or 
 hope of plunder. Two long poles, with a chair fixed with 
 cords between them, were carried by four of the stoutest, 
 who had blackened their faces, as indeed most of the party 
 had done. 
 
 All was silent in the widow's house. Lizzie had run in
 
 TJie Rescue 149 
 
 when she first saw the gathering crowd. She knew nothing 
 for certain, for the warning which Elizabeth Grills intended 
 to give them had been too long delayed, and yesterday's 
 flood and storm had put all else out of her head. Too late 
 they heard the shout of the crowd and guessed its purport ; 
 the door was locked and barred, the windows protected 
 feebly, and the women shut themselves in, beyond the door 
 of the outer room, in a back kitchen. The window of this 
 room was very small and the outer door strong, but the 
 door between the two rooms was weak and had neither 
 lock nor fastening. 
 
 " It is useless, Zippora, to try defence. I will go out and 
 speak them fair ; do you sit here. None will harm me." 
 
 "Nay, sister; I should do best to go out and bid them 
 do their will on me. 'Twill be sooner over. I was ' called ' 
 last night, and I must e'en go. I am a poor old sinner, but 
 I have harmed none, and the Lord will have more mercy 
 than men." But Mrs. Paschowe had gone out to the door 
 in front, where men were knocking now, opened it, and 
 inquired what they wanted of her, 
 
 " Us doan't want thee," cried one. " 'Tes that damned 
 old wetch, thy sister ; fetch her out, an' us '11 leave thee 
 alone." 
 
 •' And if thee dostn't," said a voice that sounded strangely 
 like Mr. Treague's. " we will put thee in the water too." 
 
 A loud shout from the mob showed the poor widow how 
 small a chance she had of saving her sister, but slu^ deter- 
 mined to make an effort. Pointing straight at a tall, pale- 
 faced man of near fifty, she waited for a pause in the rabble 
 cry of the inquisitors. 
 
 " Abner Treherne, was your wife witched when I nursed 
 her to life last spring, when you could get no other soul 
 to go anighst her for fear of the throat ill ? Hadn't her 
 girl, your only girl that yon loved so w<H, died of it ?
 
 1 50 Sir B evil I 
 
 Hadn't your dear little delicate brother died of it ? Yes, 
 and lay dead in the house when I came in and laid him 
 out, the pretty boy. Didn't I tend your wife night and 
 day ? Didn't I breathe her breath, and wash out her 
 mouth, dear soul, when not even you dared to come near 
 her bed ? Didn't Doctor Gazem tell you that nought but 
 nursing saved her life ? And now you come to kill me 
 and mine ! Shame on you, man! " And as Abner hung 
 his head : " Go home," she cried, " and bid your Uving wife 
 shame you if you are a man. And you, Digory Cruys, 
 you against me — you ? Was it small-pox, or was it not ? 
 Look at his face and see the pits ; they had left you to die, 
 hadn't they ? a mass of corruption, and these hands 
 cleansed your poor face — say if they didn't — and under 
 God Almighty brought you back to live, a man strong now 
 as a horse ; and you would drag her, that is dear to me as 
 life — drag her out to die a crueller death than small-pox ! " 
 The men were cowering back from the window. They 
 knew her, and knew what she had done in many a sick- 
 room, and remorse was stealing into their hearts, and 
 warming up the slumbering, half-frozen kindness of their 
 Celtic nature, fear-stricken for the time at the thought of 
 that awful mysterious power of the black art, in which they 
 all implicitly beheved, when the voice of Treague squeaked 
 out again : 
 
 " Ah, dear ! Poor Mrs. — good Mrs.— Paschowe's witched 
 by her wicked old sister. Fetch out the sister, lads, and 
 Mrs. Paschowe will be happy again. See, she is worn to a 
 shadow by the old hag in her house." 
 
 Then a rush, the widow thrown aside, and the wretched 
 Zippora, seized by rough hands, was borne outside the 
 house ! Unresisting, she was bound to the chair and 
 carried down the road towards the sea. 
 
 " Run and see for father, Liz : or, if Tony or Mr. Bevill
 
 The Resale 151 
 
 be home, tell them to come post-haste, 'tis life or death ; 
 and I fear 'tis death. O my God ! My God ! 'tis cruel to 
 bear. Have pity on us, Lord ! " And the poor woman 
 fell on her knees and hid her streaming face. Lizzie darted 
 off through the wood to Stowe. 
 
 Along the river bank the strange procession went, all 
 silent now, as a kind of awe fell upon them in the face of 
 the work they had undertaken. The tall pale face of the 
 man called Abner Treherne showed above the crowd of lads 
 as he walked behind this bier of a living body. He was 
 sorely perplexed by conflicting ideas. A bitter Puritan in 
 rehgion, he knew more of his Bible than most of his fellows, 
 and he knew that lack of gratitude was hateful to God. 
 Of it he owed a deep debt to Widow Paschowe for all she 
 had done for him. On the other hand, it was burnt into 
 his narrow brain "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live," 
 and he was trying to persuade his conscience that it was a 
 self-denying ordinance in him to drown or burn the sister 
 of her whom he desired to serve in grateful duty for what 
 she had done. So he murmured to himself : " ' If thy right 
 eye offend thee, pluck it out.' I be plucking out the good 
 I'd like to do her." Yet did it not quite satisfy his soul. 
 
 Digory Cruys walked by Zippora's side, and looked 
 sheepishly at her as if he would like to say a kind word and 
 did not know how to frame it. 
 
 In front marched Zachary Trcague brandishing his 
 walking-pole like a general leading an army. His eyes 
 roved round in triumph, but also in search for Richard 
 Granville, but the youth was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 The great pool was reached at last. Tlic beach had i)cen 
 thrown ujj higher than usual by the spring tide, and the 
 flood o[ yesterday had brougiit down so much cartli and 
 clay that a regular dam had been formed, so that the pool 
 was now over five feet deep in places, and into it the turbid
 
 1 52 Sir Bevill 
 
 stream rushed and swirled and eddied. Old Zippora sat 
 bolt upright in the chair, her face as white as her snowy 
 ruff, her hands were folded on her lap and she looked 
 neither to the right nor left, seemingly lost in thought. 
 
 " Now," said Treague, the trial of this here witch shall 
 commence. Woman, thou art known and approved to be 
 a practiser of the black art. Thou art a witch. Dost thou 
 deny it ? Noo. Then the trial shall proceed at once, as his 
 Majesty the King hath ordained. We shall commence, 
 mark you, witch, we shall commence with water. You four 
 men at the ends of the pole, two of you take your pole ends 
 througli the river here so that the chair be over the pool. 
 But before you do so unbind the witch from the chair." 
 
 The men obeyed, wading across knee-deep, and so, hold- 
 ing the two long poles with the chair between them, 
 placed poor old Zippora suspended over the deep end of the 
 great pool. 
 
 " Will your friend the devil help you to swim if we throw 
 you in ? " sneered Treague. Now, lads, wade in each side 
 waist-deep, and hold the poles as deep down in the water as 
 you can." 
 
 Again the four men obeyed, and the wretched woman 
 was submerged to her neck, and the rushing stream 
 reached and gurgled round her mouth. Still she never 
 moved except by very slightly leaning her head back to 
 breathe through her nostrils. 
 
 Further down, men, further down and sink her over 
 head," and the yellow water surged to the woman's crown. 
 
 " She has sunk," cried Abner. " Her's no witch, lift her 
 out, men ; hft her, I say." 
 
 The men raised the chair with the drenched woman 
 sitting on it, holding it firmly with both hands. 
 
 " She has kept herself down," said Treague. " You were 
 too quick, men. Hold thy tongue, Abner. The Lord in
 
 The Rescue 153 
 
 fiery flames will burn thy soul if thou dost interfere with 
 His judgment." 
 
 " Thy judgment, hain't it, man ? " said Abner. 
 
 " I say 'tis the Lord's," he shouted. " Dip her again, 
 longer, men, and save yourselves, your wives, your children 
 and your souls from the black arts of the devil and his 
 crew." 
 
 " And your sheep, Maister Treague," laughed a lad in the 
 crowd. 
 
 Again the chair was lowered into the pool, and again the 
 water closed over the woman's head. 
 
 " Keep her down," roared Treague. But the men looked 
 up as the sound of a horse's hoofs rang on the pebbles, and 
 Tite the Varmint, leaping from a pony, squeezed himself 
 through the crowd. At the same moment a deep voice 
 sounded from outside the crowd : 
 
 " What devilment be 'e up to here. Jack Treague ; murder 
 as it now ? " It was the voice of Farmer Grills, and all 
 the men turned to him while the woman on the chair was 
 raised from the water. 
 
 "What dost thou here, thou son of a crop-eared Papist?" 
 shouted back Treague. He felt secure with forty men at 
 his back to defy an old enemy. " An' thou com'st anigh 
 me thou shalt share the water with the witch. Douse her 
 again, men, and lads, kick that farmer man about his 
 business." 
 
 " Honest men then mustn't spake where thou art I " 
 squeaked the small shrill voice of the small thin man. 
 
 " Who art thou, thou little devil ? " answered Treague. 
 
 " Ef so be as I wcr' u devil, I'd car' thee off to hell at 
 once, old bottle-nose." 
 
 Treagtie stretched out his hand to cfjllar the imp, when 
 at that moment two more horsemen thundered into the 
 crowd, and not man nor lad there but knew and trembled
 
 1 54 .S'/V Bevill 
 
 at the roar of the giant of Stowe, as he pushed his horse 
 at speed through the mass of men. Like a flock of sheep 
 they scattered right and left. " Floury " was full in his 
 path and went to the ground with broken collar-bone and 
 arm, that time never straightened ; another, and another, 
 and yet another fell beneath his horse's hoofs and was 
 trampled by his follower, while behind him the big land- 
 lord and the burly smith of Stibb hurled themselves into 
 the midst of the mob. 
 
 Now Tony was off his horse by the water. 
 
 " Put that woman to land," he cried, and seized one pole 
 from a man's hand. As he did so, Treague from behind 
 him aimed a blow at the back of his head with his stick, 
 but the landlord's hand was too quick for him, the skilled 
 wrestler gripped him in a moment even as he threw himself 
 from his horse. 
 
 " Hold the infernal rogue a minute for me," shouted 
 Tony. " I'll talk to he presently." 
 
 In a second he was up to his waist in the pool handing 
 the half-drowned Zippora to land. Gently as a woman he 
 took her in his arms, and bringing her to the grass laid her 
 down on her side with a big stone under her head. 
 
 " See to her, smith, and if any one touches her break 
 his head as thou well knowest how." He turned to Pokin- 
 horne, who held the writhing Treague in his strong arms. 
 The wretch fought like a cat with teeth and claws, for he 
 dreaded the angry man who was now looking down at him 
 in bitter wrath. 
 
 " Beware of him, Tony, he hath the evil eye," cried 
 Farmer Grills. 
 
 "Aye, I'll beware on 'im. An' as fer 'is eye, I'll put 
 summat 'twixt me an' 'im directly. Look y' here, Pokin- 
 home. Take him by one hand and one leg, I'll take 
 t' others. He shall be done to as he did to she."
 
 The Rescue 1 55 
 
 " Mr. Payne, have mercy ! Mercy ! Mr, Payne ! " 
 
 " Thee shalt ha' th' same marcy as thee gavest." 
 
 " Nay, Master Payne, I did but do my duty by my 
 King and my Gord, who say, ' Thou shalt not suffer a 
 witch to Hve.' " 
 
 " Us'Il do our duty by our God. I'm thinking 'tain't the 
 same as your'n. Now, landlord, heave together, an' when 
 I say ' three ' let 'im goo flying to the water, an' he may 
 think hissel' lucky us don't take 'im to the say." 
 
 At the third heave the shrieking wretch was hurled far into 
 the pool, amid the jeers and laughter of his former friends 
 and accomplices. Fortunately for him the water was not 
 more than four feet deep where he alighted, and after two 
 or three plunges, he gained his feet and then the further 
 bank, up which he ran, pelted now by stones from his own 
 dupes. The operation was repeated two or three times to 
 the accompanying laughter of the mob, until the miserable 
 wretch scarce retained command of his senses. 
 
 The dwarf came solemnly up to Tony and took his 
 hand. 
 
 " Blessed art thou of the Lord, Tony Payne, but where- 
 fore wast thou so long in doing this ? Thy steed soon gave 
 up the ghost at Dolsdown. What became of thee ? " 
 
 " I'll tell thee anon. Now see to this harmless old 
 woman. Men," he cried, " ye've been all misled by an 
 evil-eyed knave. Mistress Polsutli is no witch, only a kind, 
 wise old woman, who hath done good to many, and in 
 particular to Master Bcvill's future lady. Ye've done ill ; 
 take up your hurted folk and go. And thee, Floury, don't 
 thee get in my way agin when I'm cross." 
 
 " Thee'st broken me to pieces," groaned the youth. The 
 others were bruised and that not lightly, but their bones 
 were unbroken, and the crowd slunk away. 
 
 Dame Paschowe and Liz were watching at no grcMt
 
 1 56 Sir Bevill 
 
 distance and were soon by old Zippora's side ; the chair 
 was loosened from the poles and on it the men carried her 
 to her sister's house. There she was put to bed and 
 tenderly cared for, but as she said, " her call had come " 
 and she knew it. Before the next morning broke her soul 
 had left a world which to her had been full of trouble, and 
 had given her but Uttle joy.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 RICHARD S PUNISHMENT 
 
 WHEN Lizzie Paschowe reached Stowe, breathless and 
 at first incoherent, after witnessing her Auntie Zip 
 dragged forth by the mob, she saw at some httle 
 distance, walking in the garden, a lady, whom she rightly 
 conjectured to be Mistress Grace. The servant who had 
 answered her call bade her come into the kitchen and wait, 
 while he would make inquiries for his master and her 
 father, but believed the latter had gone to the woods to 
 cut down a tree for a gate-post. 
 
 Lizzie waited, and, as the minutes dragged slowly on, 
 her impatience and fear overmastered her sense of what 
 was due to the owner of the house, and she rushed out to 
 seek Mistress Grace in the garden. But, alas, for poor 
 Lizzie, she was no longer there ; she had wandered down 
 to the beech-trees at the entrance of the road through the 
 wood. In vain the girl traversed every path, looked into 
 every summer-house and quiet nook, of which there were 
 many ; hours instead of minutes seemed to slip by, when 
 peering over the garden hedge towards the north she found 
 herself face to face with young Richard Granville, lie 
 turned quickly, entered Ihc path she was on by a small 
 wickft gate, and came to her. 
 
 " Well, Liz, come to look for me, I suppose, like the rest 
 of the girls. I should have thought they'd ha' wanted you 
 down to Coombe to dry the old witch when she comes out
 
 1 58 Sir Bevill 
 
 of the water, A chap told me just now they were ducking 
 her, and sarve her right." 
 
 •' Oh, Master Dick, yli'm too vile for a body to spake 
 to 'e," and she burst out in angry tears. " 'Tis your 
 wecked doin's I know, but oh, for God's sake, do'e goo an' 
 stop em' hurtin' aunty." 
 
 " What'll you give me if I do, mistress ? Last time 
 I only asked for a little kiss and you scratched my face. 
 How many will you give me now to save the old woman 
 being dried in a big fire ? " 
 
 " Oh, you devil, you devil, get away to hell." And the 
 girl ran screaming down the path half mad with rage and 
 fear, and rushed almost into Grace's arms ; she fell at her 
 feet and grovelled, seized her hand and covered it with 
 tears and kisses. 
 
 *' Lady, lady, save my dear old grannie an' aunt ; they'm 
 drawin' her in the river an' killin' 'er, an' ef she don't 
 drown they'll burn 'er, he saith so." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " That beast, Mars' Dick." 
 
 Richard was in sight and slowly making his way towards 
 them. He had discomfited his enemies now with a ven- 
 geance, and it pleased him. 
 
 " You two young ladies seem to be mighty fond of each 
 other. May I make so bold as to ask why you are dis- 
 coursing so pleasantly of my unworthy self. Methought 1 
 caught the sound of my name mentioned with scant affec- 
 tion." 
 
 Grace drew herself up in offended dignity. 
 
 " Richard Granville, what know you of these monstrous 
 things which arc being practised here, with you contrivance 
 'tis said ? " 
 
 "What things, lair lady? Gad, you're looking pretty 
 now."
 
 Richard's Pitnishnient 159 
 
 " Richard, is it true that they are drowning poor old 
 Mistress Paschowe and her sister ? " 
 
 " Very Ukely, my dear. Why not ? Thy father and 
 mine went down but t'other day to accuse them of prac- 
 tising witchcraft. And our good King saith it is to be 
 stopped by all means. Wherefore it seems likely that 
 what the lad reports is true, namely and to wit, that one 
 Master Treague, with some others, is trying them down by 
 the sea pool. 'Tis a good place for the purpose, and 
 mighty full of water at this time. May I offer to accom- 
 pany the ladies down to see the sport ? " 
 
 Lizzie could bear it no longer, and encouraged by the 
 presence of Grace, allowed her fury to overmaster her 
 sense, and with a wild yell as of a hunted beast turned to 
 bay, she rushed on Richard. Surprised, and for the 
 moment off his guard, he received her ten nails in his face 
 like the onslaught of a wild cat, and fell backwards on the 
 path, Lizzie kicked him with all her might and fled, fled 
 on and on down the hill and into the wood, where she lay 
 on the wet ground alternately screaming and groaning till 
 in the respite of weariness from her paroxysm of rage, she 
 heard the sound of a horse. It was a farmer she knew 
 riding towards Morwenstowc. She went to him, begging 
 his aid. He dismounted and walked by her down the 
 steep hill to the ford. He had no mind to interfere with 
 a crowd of men, and was deaf to Iicr attempts at persua- 
 sion; as she j^ressed him witii tears to come with her, 
 Farmer Grills and Tite appeared coming along the lane from 
 Lea. With them she went sadly towards the sea pool and 
 found her grandmother watching the scene in bitter sorrow. 
 
 When Lizzie left her, Grace ran to the house hoping to 
 find a man to send for her father and Sir Ijcrnardc. P.ut it 
 was long before they returned from their walk and heard 
 from Grace what she knew.
 
 i6o Sir Bevill 
 
 The Knight of Stowe was angry and perplexed. Sir 
 George was angry but not at all perplexed. Such lawless 
 behaviour seemed to him incredible, unless it were sanc- 
 tioned, either directly or indirectly, by the great landowner, 
 at present his host. Richard was in the house, and in spite 
 of his wounds, which were neither few nor painless, was 
 determined to put in an appearance to prove that he had 
 nothing to do with the witch-hunt in case trouble came 
 of it. 
 
 " Whatever is the matter with thy face, Richard ? " 
 inquired his father. 
 
 " Nothing much, I scratched it with a bramble in 
 passing through Byery as I came from that lower field of 
 Lea. I was talking to Grills about his sheep. Some of 
 them had clambered over that fence which he says belongs 
 to you to keep, and I helped him drive them out of the 
 wood. He is rather cross about it, father ; he says they 
 lose a lot of wool when they get in. Shall I send that lazy 
 dog Paschowe to put some rails across ? Bevill never looks 
 after such things, he's always too busy courting first one 
 and then another damsel." And he smiled sweetly on 
 Grace, who felt that Lizzie's marks of affection had been 
 well bestowed. 
 
 " Never mind the sheep, boy. 'Tis said that thou 
 knowest all about these lawless doings at Coombe. How 
 cam'st thou by the knowledge ? I trust thou hadst no 
 hand in it." 
 
 " No hand, in good sooth. I only heard of it just now 
 from Ohver Scott, the mole-catcher." 
 
 " That thou did'st not, young sir," broke in Sir George ; 
 " for I wot well that the same Oliver Scott was from early 
 morn the other side of the land you call the Warren. His 
 worship's liind pointed out the man to me but an hour ago, 
 and remarked that he had been there all the morn."
 
 Richard s Punishment i6i 
 
 " Well, Sir Knight, an' thou knowest so much, perhaps 
 thou wilt hke to know a little more. I can tell thee that 
 there are two cousins called by one and the same name, 
 and both till traps for wants,* and one I saw, and may he 
 thou, too, saw'st one. Well, father, as I was saying when 
 this good old gentleman, who is so well acquainted with 
 our folk, interrupted me, this Nolly Scott, as they call 
 him, said as Zachary Treague and a posse had taken out 
 the old witch Polsuth and were trying her with water, 
 according to his Majesty the King's orders ; if they are 
 mistaken thou hadst better let Treague know to be more 
 careful for the future to ask your worship's leave before he 
 tries witches. The man said as Mr. Treague gave out that 
 he had your worship's approval." Richard finished this 
 mixture of truth and lies with the air of a man who, though 
 unjustly suspected, had done his duty to his country and 
 deserved well of it. 
 
 Sir George had so httle faith in him that he asked per- 
 mission to call the hind, and as Richard made for the door 
 begged his father to hinder his departure. 
 
 The man came in, and on being questioned declared 
 with truth that there was no second Oliver Scott who 
 trapped moles. 
 
 "Thou liest, Nick Western, whether thou knowest it or 
 not ; I say that if one Oliver Scott was traj)ping wants over 
 on the Warren, then I saw another Oliver Scott this morn- 
 ing, who is, I believe, cousin to your man, and had want- 
 catching traps hung over his shoulder. So, father, you may 
 believe whom you please, your son, or this wortliy gentle- 
 man from Exeter who is so anxious to uphold the black 
 art." 
 
 " Richard, thou art rude and insolent, leave the room or 
 1 shall speak still more harshly to thee." 
 
 * Set traps for moles. 
 
 L
 
 1 62 Sir Bevill 
 
 " An' thou wert my son," added Sir George, " a good 
 ground ash and thy back should make acquaintance. Thou 
 hast hed again, as thou didst before this, and in thy letter 
 to me, thou most unworthy lad." 
 
 Richard retreated to the door and was preparing a 
 Parthian shot for his enemy, when the door was thrown 
 open and three men, in a high state of excitement, were 
 ushered into the room. The three consisted of Farmer 
 Grills, the smith from Stibb and Anthony Payne. The 
 latter was literally blazing with wrath, for he had met 
 Lizzie and heard from her of the insults with which Richard 
 had treated her. The youth was leaving the room, but 
 Tony interposed his vast frame and, shutting the door, 
 leaned his broad back against it, and stood towering above 
 the rest. Even the smith, who was a big man and 
 several inches over six feet, looked small in com- 
 parison. 
 
 " There be cruel work doen, your worships, down to 
 Coombe," began Farmer Grills. " A wecked crowd have a- 
 bust in Widow Paschowe's house, taken her sister to the 
 river and just drounded her, led on by Mr. Zachary Treague, 
 and gathered together by him and Master Richard Gran- 
 ville, begging your worship's pardon." 
 
 " Who dares to say I had aught to do with this business?" 
 cried Richard, who came forward from the door. 
 
 "That do I," said Anthony Payne. "I say that thou 
 didst plan and contrive this weckedness when thy brother 
 and I were away. Thou saidst it to this here farmer, 
 Master Grills, his daughter, and it were written and sent to 
 the young Squire, my master, who told me to come back 
 and put a stop to thy tricks, an' that's why I be here, an' 
 but for the storm I shud ha' bin here before an' put an end 
 to thy pranks, for which may God forgive me." As he 
 said this the giant advanced, pulling his forelock humbly,
 
 Richard's Punishment 163 
 
 yet with only half-smothered indignation. As he left the 
 door Master Richard slipt back behind him, opened it, and 
 was gone. It was not that his courage failed him, but 
 rather that his judgment convinced him that further 
 defence was useless : for was not the ground cut from 
 under his feet, his own sweetheart had betrayed him, and 
 her father stood there to convict. Moreover, it was not 
 pleasant to stand within reach of Anthony Payne's arm 
 when his blood was up. Picking out, therefore, the most 
 useful nag he could find in the stable, he started to ride 
 for Clovelly that afternoon, hoping to favour Mr. Gary at 
 Clovelly with his company for a while until his father's 
 anger was passed. But his start was a short one, for as he 
 came out of the stable he found himself face to face with 
 Landlord Pokinhorne. 
 
 " Make so bold, sir," he asked, laying his hand on the 
 horse's bridle, " to know whither my nag be goin' this 
 afternoon without my leave ? " 
 
 "Thy nag, man ? 'Tis one of my father's, and you can 
 take yourself out of my way unless you wish to be ridden 
 over." 
 
 The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Richard 
 found himself sprawling on the ground. 
 
 The great wrestler from Week St. Mary neither knew nor 
 cared who he was, and it was child's play with him to 
 throw a man off a horse. It was a trick of his trade, and 
 he did it as easily with one hand as lifting a mug of ale to 
 his mouth. 
 
 " Thee canst get up and ride over rae now an' thee wilt,' 
 he remarked with a grim smile. 
 
 Richard rose to his feet in wrath, not lessened by the 
 fact that behind the landlord stood Lizzie Paschowe, v/ho 
 had come up the hill with Anthony. 
 
 '• Oh, Mr. Pokinhorne, good Mr. Pokinhorne, do 'c thrash
 
 164 Sir Bevill 
 
 uii well. He's the one who's caused all the mischief to 
 Aunt Zip." 
 
 " You're a liar,' quoth Richard. 
 
 "Es this so?" said the landlord gravely, laying his 
 hand on Richard's arm. The lad struck with all his might 
 at Pokinhorne's face with his free hand, but he might as 
 well have struck at the stable gate. The practised wrestler 
 caught the fist in his hand and held it up, 
 
 " Come into the house, young man, I shall take thee 
 before thy betters. 'Twere well thou shiidest learn not to 
 steal horses, nor to assault thy neighbours." 
 
 So saying, he hauled the unwilling youth towards the 
 entrance of Stowe. Anthony Payne and his friends coming 
 out at that instant, Richard was carried by the landlord, 
 followed by the rest, into the great hall, at the end of which 
 stood Sir Bernarde and Sir George Smith. The Knight of 
 Stowe was bitterly angered now to find a fresh disturbance 
 caused by his son. 
 
 The landlord laid the case before him ; his horse had 
 been taken out, and when he demanded a reason, the 
 young man had threatened to ride over him ; he had un- 
 seated him of course, having no intention to lose his horse, 
 whereupon he had been assaulted with violence. 
 
 Justly displeased, Sir Bernarde bade his son explain his 
 conduct, and offer his humble apologies to Mr. Pokin- 
 horne, who had such just cause for complaint. 
 
 Surlily, in few words, Richard asked the landlord's 
 pardon, when Lizzie, who had entered with the rest, came 
 forward. Rage was in her heart. The insults of the 
 morning stood out unavenged. The marks of her nails on 
 his hated face only refreshed to her mind the cruelty of the 
 taunts which he flung at her dear grannie. She burst out 
 with: 
 
 "And is there to be no justice for wecked murder?
 
 Richanfs PtuiisJuncjit 165 
 
 No punishment for all the insults laid on my old 
 grannie ? " 
 
 "Hold thy tongue, wench," hissed Richard through his 
 teeth, " or I'll drown thee too." 
 
 Sir Bernarde heard it, and it was too much even for him. 
 "Richard," he roared, "unworthy son, thou shalt go 
 down and beg pardon of Mistress Paschowe." 
 " Not I, father, not for a hundred fathers." 
 " I'll take him down, yer honour," offered Anthony. 
 "Aye, let him ride," said Pokinhorne, who had not 
 got over the lad's threat to ride over him on his own 
 horse. 
 
 " Aye, marry, let him ride, tie him on an ass and take 
 him down." 
 
 Richard fell on the ground as if in a faint, and the land- 
 lord loosed his hold. In a moment the lad was on his feet, 
 and crying, "I defy the lot of you," made a dash for the door 
 Lizzie was straight in his way and did not budge an inch ; 
 he struck her down ; next moment he was in the grasp of 
 Anthony. His great hand nearly broke the lad's arm. 
 
 " Thou'lt ride the ass down, lad, an' after that I'll talk to 
 thee," he cried, mad with fury. 
 
 Sir Bernarde was too angry to interfere, so into the 
 yard Master Richard was borne. The ass was soon 
 found and upon it he was placed with his feet tied together 
 beneath. 
 
 Down the hill toward Coombe went Master Richard with 
 ignominy. Dick had enemies among the varlets and re- 
 tainers of the Knight, but still a few of the lads took it jis 
 a hardship that their arch-leader in miscliief should bo so 
 severely handled. One tall lad cspcciidly kept near and 
 even laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. Dick closed 
 his eyes, placed the palms of his hands together before 
 him, and, in an attitude of humility, almost of prayer,
 
 1 66 Sir Bevill 
 
 was carried down the hill. "Dear Jimmy," he whispered, 
 " have thy knife ready at the bottom of the hill and a crown 
 will be thine." Again, a moment after, " Hast got a shoe 
 nail in thy pocket ? " The lad handed one to him unseen. 
 The sharp turn in the steep hill was passed, they ap- 
 proached the stream that rushes from the mill, on the left 
 was a meadow, on the right the narrow end of Stowewood. 
 Richard was heard to murmur a prayer. 
 
 *' Holy Balaam, stretch forth thy hand and make this old 
 ass of thine kick like the devil just for once ! " His hands 
 fell to all appearance helpless by his side, and at that 
 moment the donkey, with a fierce grunt as of pain, sent 
 her heels flying up behind her, higher, surely, than she 
 had ever flung them up before, and pitched Master Dick 
 over the bank into the scrub oak wood. The friendly boy 
 whose knife had certainly had some share in the catas- 
 trophe, leaped on the bank and crying, " I'll catch he in a 
 moment," precipitated himself into the wood. 
 
 " Here he is," he cried, turning up the wood to the 
 right, and the rest ran shouting after him, some in the 
 road, some scrambling into the wood ; but Richard had 
 slipped off to the left among the thicker bushes by the 
 stream, and was out of sight in a moment. Skirting along 
 the edge of the river he gained the wood which led up to 
 Lea Farm. Here all was quiet ; creeping stealthily round 
 the house he whistled softly till a door opened and Tamasine 
 appeared. She looked round, and, seeing no one, for 
 Richard was lying flat among some bushes, was about to 
 return to the house, when the lad, making sure that the 
 coast was clear, rose from his hiding-place. 
 
 " Hist, Tammy, art all alone here ? " 
 
 "Only Janet's at home, Richard; but we don't wish to 
 have thee in here, we've had news of thy doin's." 
 
 "Ah, Tammy dear, they've nearly killed me. They
 
 Richard' s PiuiisJimeut 167 
 
 bound me on to a donkey's back and carried me down to 
 the river." 
 
 " An' sarve thee well right an' they'd put thee in from 
 all I hear." 
 
 " How cruel thou art, Tammy. Well, if thou art like all 
 the rest, set on my destruction, I may as well go back 
 an' drown myself ; 'tis as well as being drowned by the 
 brute Payne and his friends ; but I did hope for help from 
 thee, Tammy, the only one in all the country that has 
 ever been really kind to me. Well, good-bye, thou'lt 
 never see me again alive." 
 
 He turned away as if broken-hearted, and Tamasine began 
 to relent. 
 
 " Well, what dost thou want ? Ef they bound thee to 
 the jackass, how is it thou art here ? " 
 
 " Look at the ends of the cords on my feet if thou doesn't 
 beUeve me ; the ass kicked an' I fell nearly dead in the 
 wood. They thought I had run up the hill, but there I lay 
 hke a corpse. Oh, Tammy, it w^is awful, I thought my 
 back was broke, an' then I was sure my neck was broke. 
 I felt all in pieces, and gave up in despair, life and every- 
 thing, till I thought of thee. Tammy, and I said, ' If or^ly 
 my own dear Tammy was near ! ' I suppose I fainted with 
 the pain for I knew nothing for a while, and then all was 
 quiet and I crawled up here, just to see thy dear face once 
 more." 
 
 "What can I do for tluc ; I can't take care o' tlicc, 'an 
 father and the lads'li be in directly." 
 
 "Oh, Tammy dear, let mc come up (n thy chamber till 
 to-morrow. No one will think of hunting for me there." 
 
 "Take thcc to my bedroom! No, Master Dick, not 
 likely. Did ever hear such a request? No, indeed. I 
 wonder thou durst say such a word to ;i maid ! I wonder 
 what next ! "
 
 1 68 Sir Bevill 
 
 " I meant no harm, Tammy. I never said thy bedroom, 
 I said thy chamber. Sure thou hast some quiet chamber 
 where I could He for the night ? " 
 
 "No, I han't, an what's more I ain't goin' to let thee 
 inside th' house at all. I'm fearing thou art not telling 
 triie, Richard. I'll get thee bread and milk, an' thee canst 
 hide in straw-house till to-morrow, an' be off early, I 
 beseech thee." 
 
 " How can I go. Tammy ? Thou art unkind. I have no 
 money an' no horse. That great devil from Week St. 
 Mary threw me off my horse when I was starting and nearly 
 broke my bones. Canst lend me just one gold piece ? I will 
 send back a pound in a few days." 
 
 " Yii go to the straw-house quick, an' I'll see what I can 
 dii, only for God's sake go at once or the boys will come in." 
 So Richard hid himself in the straw and was cheered by 
 a bit of pasty and some milk which Tamsaine brought him, 
 together with a piece of gold. But no, not one single kiss 
 could he win from her. His offences were too deep. Had 
 he not kissed Elizabeth, and Ued to her ! " 
 
 Early next morning he made his way to Clovelly, 
 borrowing for that purpose a pony belonging to farmer 
 Grills. This he rode as far as the "Dykes" and there gave 
 a lad sixpence to ride it back to Lea. 
 
 At Clovelly he spent his time with his friend, young 
 Cary, but growing tired of tamer pleasures he conceived 
 the plan of going after nightfall by himself to three of the 
 highest points of the cliff and on them lighting beacons. 
 He fancied that some stranger vessel might mistake the 
 lights and run ashore beneath the cliff. He might possibly 
 even lure one of the pirates that infested the channel, or 
 perchance a French, or a Spanish ship. However, he cared 
 little what, so long as it afforded him the pleasure of mis- 
 chief and excitement.
 
 Ric/ianfs Piuiishnient 169 
 
 After spending several nights in this more than question- 
 able pursuit, he had some difficulty one misty moonless 
 night in making his fire burn. It was the point nearest to 
 the little harbour. He lay flat on the ground, blowing at 
 the red embers, when suddenly he found both his wrists 
 grasped from behind and his body turned over across the 
 knees of some man who had come upon him unawares. 
 
 " Bent on mischief, art thou, young son of Belial ? Dost 
 think I haven't watched for thee these three nights past to 
 know thy purpose with these fires of thine ? " 
 
 " Let me be, man, or thou wilt rue it. Dost harken, I'll 
 spit thee hke a rabbit anon. Let go, I say." 
 
 " Not so fast, young maister. Thou be'st young an' I 
 be old, an' I be a-goin' togie thee such a lesson as thou wilt 
 never forget." 
 
 His great hands were sticky with tar, he smelt of tar all 
 over ; in a moment he had Richard's two hands in one of his 
 and with the other drew out a well- tarred cord with which he 
 bound the lad's hands in a few moments with scientific pre- 
 cision, and then, with the end of the same cord, his ankles. 
 He was helpless in the hands of this great old sailor. Help- 
 less as a child of six. Laying the lad across his knees as 
 he seated himself on the ground, he began again : 
 
 "Thou art full of weckedncss, sonny. Thou hast tried 
 to lure sailors to their doom. I mean to lam thee better. 
 Dost thou know a few words out of nn old book ? — 'Thou 
 shalt love thy neighbours as thyself — seven little words 
 as I intend to drive into thy mind. So we begin ' Thou '." 
 
 As he spoke he took from his capacious pocket a piece of 
 knotted cord, and with this impressed on his victim the 
 meaning of the word. 
 
 " Thoii [stripcj hast no feeling for the poor sailor man 
 driven in the cold dead waste of the night upon these here 
 cruel rocks." A stripe accompanied almost every word.
 
 1 70 Sir Bevill 
 
 Shoulders, back and thighs were treated impartially. The 
 agony was great, for the old mariner was strong of arm. 
 Richard disdained to cry out and tried his hardest to drive 
 his teeth into the old man's knee, only to receive a blow 
 from that knee which almost sent his teeth down his 
 throat. 
 
 " Shalt, for the future, mark this, young man." Tlie 
 stripes went on. 
 
 " Love, treat 'em fair, not lure 'em on to cruel rocks." 
 
 " Thy neighbour. The poor sailor man at sea, friend or 
 foe, he is thy neighbour." The knotted cord still empha- 
 sised every word, when a voice behind him stayed his 
 hand. 
 
 " Hullo, Sam, what work art thou after now ? " 
 
 " What cheer. Master Gary, what cheer ? I've a-caught 
 this Umb o' Satan at last. I've watched these fires on 
 cliff several nights, an' fancied first they were a-smugglin', 
 but I finds a youngster a-blowin' up the fire an' sajrin' to 
 hisself how he'd like to see a ship run ashore, so I'm a- 
 givin' he a little edication." 
 
 "Good heavens, man, you've got young Granville 
 there." 
 
 " Granville, be he ? I've a-served under one Granville, 
 God bless him, 'tain't no relation of he ? " 
 
 "Aye, maUj 'tis Richard Granville, grandson of your old 
 captain." 
 
 '* God forgive me ; natheless, well he desarved it an' 
 more too, fer he had the will to drown poor sailor men as 
 never hurted nor harmed he, the mischieful young toad." 
 
 But poor Dick had succumbed ; what with the pain, the 
 effort to keep back a cry and the posture he was in, he lay 
 like a log, unconscious, across the sailor's knees. They 
 lifted him up, and bathing his head at a streamlet, which 
 partly revived him, led him to the house of Master Gary.
 
 Richard's Punislmierit 1 7 1 
 
 For days Richard lay sorrowfully in bed ; repose was 
 impossible, for his back was torn and bruised. HeaUng 
 ointments did their work at last, and Dick was once more 
 himself again ; but the thing which annoyed him most was 
 a daily visit from his tormentor. The very sound of that 
 heavy tread and deep bass voice raised his gorge. Gain- 
 ing strength he awaited his enemy one day, after placing a 
 heavy box and a pitcher of water on the door, when to his 
 horror, instead of the sailor, the elder Mr. Gary entered 
 the room and narrowly escaped the blow and deluge pre- 
 pared for the old man of the sea. Mr. Gary was not 
 pleased, and that afternoon Richard was provided with a 
 steed to take himself off to Stowe. Grossing Bursdon Moor 
 he turned down the lanes to Lea Farm, where he left the 
 pony with the farmer, saying that Mr. Gary would send for 
 it, and walked home to his father's house. Sir Bernarde 
 and Bevill were in the hall as he entered. His father had 
 forgotten his anger and only grieved for the loss of his boy. 
 
 " Where dost spring from, Richard ? I feared thou wert 
 lost!" 
 
 "Lost, indeed, father, if being seized by pirates is being 
 lost ; they have beaten, starved and almost murdered me. 
 Had it not been for a friendly man on board I had been 
 dead long since. He persuaded tliem to land me off 
 Tonnacombe and I walked here. See here, my doublet cut 
 to pieces with their knotted cords; thanks to my friend 1 
 have a cloak to cover it." Pity filled the hearts of Bevill 
 and his father, and Richard was duly cared for and the 
 past forgiven. Unfortunately for him a messenger from 
 Clovclly rode over to bring back the borrowed steed and 
 came through Kilkhampton instead of Lea-Barton. A letter 
 from the elder Mr. Gary explained in brief some of Dick's 
 delinquencies and stopped the flow of home sympathy lor 
 the young scajH^grace,
 
 1 72 Sir Bevill 
 
 " Well, father, they may say what they like," he cried 
 with a delightful disregard of shame or veracity. " If a 
 man who ties your hands and feet and justs beats you to 
 death is not a pirate I don't know what is; and whether I 
 came by sea or by land matters little enough. Tell the man, 
 Bevill, he will find Gary's horse at Lea ; and, father, please 
 send Grills' daughter a pound, she kindly lent me one and 
 gave me food when I got away from that villain Anthony, 
 whom I pray the devil may have and keep." So saying 
 he departed for his chamber, and there remained for the 
 next three days. 
 
 "What am I to do with such a lad?" exclaimed his 
 father in despair. 
 
 " Send him to sea in a King's ship. He has plenty of 
 courage, and the discipline will be the making of him." 
 
 So before another year had passed, Richard was des- 
 patched to Plymouth, and found himself before long in 
 company with a lad younger than himself, his cousin— so 
 called — George Monk, who became in after years his pupil 
 in war, and a sincere admirer of his resource and courage.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 MISTRESS GRACE HAS FURTHER MISGIVINGS 
 
 M 
 
 ISTRESS GRACE was sore at heart at Bevill's deser- 
 tion and inattention. He had left her almost as soon 
 as she had arrived at Stowe, and had sent for horses 
 — especially for a lady's palfrey ! He had received, too, an 
 urgent message of the danger threatened to his people, yet he 
 remained at Trebursey ; wherefore ? Her heart was troubled. 
 The conduct was not like that which she knew of Bevill 
 Granville, so clear and open, so devoted to her person, so 
 apparently unconscious of any other attraction, although 
 he had mixed in London with England's noblest and 
 fairest. Had he not returned to Madford entirely hers ? 
 Who was this lady that was keeping him at her side ? 
 Then she would chide herself for her folly. Of course it 
 was likely that Mr. Gedie would not have ladies' horses ; 
 his wife was dead, and the fair Rhadagund had been absent 
 some time from home. Sure it was for her that the palfrey 
 was intended, that she and John Eliot, together with her 
 Bevill, might visit the moor of which he had said so much 
 to her in tlie past. Yes, Bevill would love to be with his 
 friend John Ehot ; who would not ? The memory of 
 Eliot's visit to her father, and his encounter with the 
 gypsies on the night when she stoned the dog, rose up in her 
 mind. It was a very sweet memory. She could recall the 
 look of the stars that night, and the two great planets so 
 close together, Venus and Mars, Love and War; was that
 
 1 74 Sir Bevill 
 
 to be the prophecy of her hfe, or of the Ufe of the man who 
 protected her so well that night ? Love ? Sure it was 
 hers, the love of so true and brave a man as her Bevill. 
 Why should she doubt it ? Lost in reverie she sat un- 
 noticed, until starting at the sound of a heavy footstep 
 she saw the great form of Anthony standing within the 
 door. 
 
 " May I have speech with thee, lady ? " he asked. 
 " Surely, Anthony. I was wishing for more news of poor 
 Mistress Polsuth ; can we not send to inquire ? " 
 
 "I'm fearin' 'twill be useless, lady, there was death in 
 her face when we took her home. And she know'd it. Her 
 said, ' Never mind me, sister, I'm called an' I'U goo.' But 
 'tes murder an' no mistake. I'd liive to see that Zachy 
 Treague hanged." 
 
 " Don't be so bloodthirsty, Anthony. Remember what 
 our blessed Saviour said, ' They that take the sword shall 
 perish with the sword.' He must have meant, he who kills 
 for the sake of killing, not in self-defence or in battle, but on 
 his own account. And when we wish for another's death 
 it is like kilhng for our own fancy and wish." 
 
 " P'raps yii'm raight, mistress. But didn't Master 
 Bevill ought to ha' come home an' put a stop to all this, 
 'stead o' leavin' it to me as had no decent beast to ride." 
 
 •' I wish heartily he had come, I am sure. There is no 
 one like him to keep people quiet and make them do their 
 duty. Why did he not ? " 
 
 " Aye, mistress, that's of it. Why did he not ? I could 
 tell an' I would, but I like not to think or say a word that 
 would hurt him." 
 
 " But sure no word to me will hurt him. You can speak 
 freely to me." She was half ashamed of her eagerness to 
 know all. If the reason were harmless or to his credit, why 
 should it not be told at once.
 
 Mistress Grace has Misgivings 1 75 
 
 " Tell me, Anthony," and she went close to him. 
 " Nay, mistress. 'Tis not for me to say the meanin' of 
 the gentry's ways. Perhaps I judge by my own people, 
 but if Liz were to hear of me walking wi' another maid» 
 her'd be in a pore, sure 'nuf." 
 
 " What other ? Mistress Rhadagund is married to 
 Master John Eliot. Who is there for him to walk and ride 
 with but his friend's wife ? That is all right, Anthony." 
 
 " Friend's wife, quotha ! Nay, nay, mistress, they must 
 be keepin' you i' the dark. 'Tis no friend's wife he sent 
 for horses for her to ride ; no, no. 'Tis another kind of 
 lady. A grand lady, I'll allow. Some great relation to the 
 King hisself, Tite said. Tall and dark-faced, hke them 
 there Spanish chaps a'most, an' eyes that bore holes in yer 
 face. They'm all mad about her there, but, lor' sakes, I 
 shiidn't care for the Ukes o' her. Her's tii dark-grained 
 for me." 
 
 " What is her name, Anthony ? " 
 
 " Her name ? Well, I can't mind zactly ; 'tes Lady — Lady 
 Jane R, no; S, T, no; 'tis a letter of th' alferbit, U, V, W, 
 X — X 'tis fer certain. Ees, Lady Jane Exe, an' her father's 
 th' Earl o' Exmoor, where they ha' a lot of stags, so Tite 
 says, hundreds an' hundreds on 'em. I'd hke well to goo 
 to Exmoor an' see they." 
 
 " Is the lady very young, Tony ? " 
 
 " Don' know, my lady, young her may be. Her wanted 
 to ride Vulcan. Her can talk any langwigc under the sun, 
 they told me, w'en she's minded, an' read biikes as is 
 wonnerful, quite amazin' they says. Her own private 
 tirin' wumman was there, proud as a paycock. Ses to me 
 when 1 was eaten my dinner, ' Wot corner of the world 
 d'yu come from. Es it worse nor this, or's bad ? 'Tes a 
 haythen land, seems to me,' she ses. ' Yu'm Granville's 
 man,' she ses. ' What business 'ave 'e got wctli my lady ?
 
 1 76 Sir Bevill 
 
 Her's fit for a king, not a li'l' pokey country squire,' her 
 ses. I was too hungry to tell wi' her, or I ciid ha' said 
 summut, ' Lor',' she says, ' I've seed great men,' state 
 ministers she called 'era, ' down on their knees to my lady.' 
 An' when I stood upright, she beginned at me again. ' Be 
 all the men as tall as you where you com'd from ? ' Her 
 was a good-luking young wumman." 
 
 " Well, Anthony, I am very glad you came in time to 
 save poor Zippora. She is a good woman, whatever people 
 may say. Now I am sure you must be wet through ; go 
 and get dry clothes." 
 
 Tony made his obeisance and departed, not quite clear 
 in his mind what " the quality " meant by their quiet 
 ways. He knew pretty well what his Liz would have said, 
 and done, too, under the circumstances. 
 
 Left to herself, Grace was sore perplexed and deeply 
 hurt. She had known Bevill from childhood. If not 
 brilhant, like Ehot, he was thoughtful and studious, and a 
 fair scholar, but above all he had ever been one on whom 
 those who knew him could depend. His allegiance to her had 
 never swerved. Her only doubts in the past had been as 
 to herself, whether she had worthily returned his whole- 
 hearted affection for her. 
 
 That one evening with Eliot had caused her great search- 
 ings of heart, and she longed now for her mother's voice and 
 her mother's arms around her. And yet — and yet, how 
 could she give the confidence of her heart to any one in 
 such a case ? She knew so httle. The idle talk of the 
 kitchen could be nothing to her. Yet why did he not come 
 back to the call of duty, when never before now had 
 he failed, in their need, any one, whether rich or poor ? So 
 musing, and most unhappy, she left the great room below 
 to seek her own chamber. In the entrance-hall she met 
 her father.
 
 Mistress Grace has Misgivings 177 
 
 Sir George did not look pleased, and began at once : 
 
 " We leave here to-morrow morning, child. Much as I 
 mislike travelling on Sunday, I cannot stay here. Sir 
 Bernarde and I do not think alike, and it irks me to be 
 always on my guard with one, who is not only my old 
 friend but, just now, my most hospitable host." 
 
 '• Nay, father, let us have a quiet Sunday here, and not 
 depart as if displeased. I would gladly be of use to the 
 poor woman who befriended me when I was sore beset. 
 May we not even now walk down and see how she fares, 
 and go in peace to-morrow to the old church in Kilk- 
 hampton, which I love ? " 
 
 " Well, well, child, thou always hast thy way, and in 
 the main art mostly right. We will walk down to 
 Coombe." 
 
 As they passed through the wood beyond the fish-ponds 
 and gained the furze-clad hill, the glory of the afternoon 
 sun broke from a cloud. The fresh north-west wind was 
 clearing the sky. The great Atlantic below them caught 
 the rays in his mighty bosom, reflecting them back on 
 every crest. The white foam curled lovingly round the 
 stern brown rocks, while each wavelet deepened into 
 sapphire as the clouds rolled on to the east and left the 
 western sky one clear sheet of azure. Brown bracken 
 feathered across their path ; small creatures darted here 
 and there over the lawns between the brakes, or scuttled 
 into holes bcnratli the wind-swept stunted oaks. The 
 world with all its living creatures w;is so fair, so pure, so 
 filled with peace that it seemed hard to realise the death- 
 bringing contrast of human folly and human malice. A 
 ind roming up from Coombe saw them nnd shirked 
 shamefacedly among the trees. But the Knight hailed him, 
 and he. having nt) sufficient hiding-place, was forced to re- 
 turn to the path he had left. 
 
 M
 
 1 78 Sir Bevill 
 
 " Where art going, lad ? " demanded Sir George. 
 
 " Goin' whum, yer honour." 
 
 ''Where hast been?" 
 
 " Bin to see Floury, ee's my cousin, an' big Tony Payne 
 have a-trampled he, an' brok's arm, an' collard bone, an* 
 a'most killed un. 'Tes a shame, I say." 
 
 " No shame, I suppose, to drown a harmless old 
 woman ? " 
 
 " Her's wetch." 
 
 " How do you know that ? " 
 
 "Her wudden drowny." 
 
 " I don't know that. Well, good day, lad, and learn to 
 be kinder." 
 
 " 'Tis Httle use speaking to such, he would not be 
 driven from his opinion of witches by an angel from 
 heaven, I marvel Bevill Grenville did not return. Payne 
 informed me that he had heard about this witch-hunt, and 
 I fear 'tis mostly the work of his brother Richard." 
 
 " Might that not be the reason that he was loath to return 
 — Bevill loves peace with his family ? " 
 
 " Nay, dearest, I fear 'twas that he had found more 
 attractive metal there. Payne hinted as much when he 
 said that the Lady Jane Exe could not spare him to return. 
 She is a great lady, and a friend of John Eliot. I knew 
 not she was at Trebursey, but I gather that it is not un- 
 known to the Knight. She will be very wealthy, and when 
 •I saw her in London some three years agone, she was a 
 very beautiful woman, and of the first blood in the land. 
 My Lord Exmoor, her father, is the son of a niece of King 
 Henry the Seventh. Queen Elizabeth called him cousin, I 
 know, for I heard her say it. I fear the lady hath made 
 an impression on young Bevill's heart, and I more than 
 suspect that his father sent him to Trebursey for that very 
 purpose."
 
 AN 1)1,1) COKNl'.H IN KII.KII AMI' TON
 
 ^
 
 Mistress Grace has Misgivings 179 
 
 They reached Coombe and found the widow's door 
 closed, and with difficulty effected an entrance. Lizzie 
 and her mother were below stairs ; her grannie was with 
 her dying sister in a room above. They could be of 
 no service, and after a few kind words took their depar- 
 ture.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 HOW TREAGUE WAS MADE TO PAY FOR THE DEAD COB 
 
 '"^TT^ES a wisht job, an' I doan't see the end on't," quoth 
 I Tite, referring to the death of the cob which 
 Anthony had borrowed and ridden as far as 
 Dolsdown Inn. 
 
 " So 'tes," repHed Anthony, as the two stood together next 
 day in the stable-yard ; " aye, more'n wisht, 'tes murder." 
 
 " Us doan't call killin' a brute of a horse like that by 
 accident murder. Dunno wot yii may dil down along 
 hereabouts," returned Tite gloomily. 
 
 '• What horse ? " 
 
 "Wy, my gal's father's horse. Old Jonas will be in a 
 pretty pore. He told me as he wer' offered eight pounds 
 an fifteen shelluns for'n, an' wanted naine pounds, or 
 wudden spare un. Us'll have to gi'e he more'n eight 
 pounds, an' I han't a-got but dree." 
 
 " Oh, th' horse l)c ut ? Thoft yu was tellin' 'bout Ih' 
 old woman. Her's dead." 
 
 "Dead, be 'er ? " 
 
 " Jss fey, dead's a moor-stone post." 
 
 " My sakes ! That es murder." 
 
 " They caan't say her killed herself ; 'twill be a crowner's 
 quest, an' she'll ha' Christian burial. I wonder who'll pay 
 for th'orse!" 
 
 " Tell 'e," said Titc, beaming with a suddcji insiJiration ; 
 " have that there son o' Behal as was shouting bad
 
 How Treagite was made to Pay i8i 
 
 langwige an' Scripture permiskeus got money or goods 
 belonging to un ? " 
 
 " What, Zacky Treague got any money ? My sonny, 
 he've a-got mor'n yii can county in twelve hours. He've 
 a-chated an' skinned 'is neighbours for years." 
 
 " Then we'll skin he." At this moment Pokinhorne 
 entered the yard. "Ef yii tii will goo wi' me, I'll ventur' 
 to make old Treague pay for that there horse." 
 
 " How'll 'e dii it ? " said Tony. 
 
 " Es," said the landlord. "How'll 'e maak ole skin- 
 flint pay anything ? I'll lend a hand, anyways." 
 
 " Jest these way," said Tite. " Us three'll go to his place 
 an' tell un straight as we've a-comed for he for murder. 
 Say I be lawyer from Lanson. An' ten pounds he shall 
 pay down or we takes he to Lanson Gaol. Money down. 
 We've all three seed un an' heard un say, ' Drown her,' 
 That's hangin' matter ef there's any law in England. I 
 wer in court t'other day to Lanson an' a man come in an' 
 a sed, ' Ef yu plaise, yer honour, be there any law in 
 England fer to punish a man for keckin' another man's 
 wife behind ? ' An the judge 'e says, ' Ef he kecked her 
 so's to kill 'er 'tis hangin'.' So T says, 'Ef he droundedher 
 so's to kill her 'tes hangin',' " 
 
 " He waan't pay," said Tony. 
 
 " Us can beat un till 'e doth," said Pokinhorne. So off 
 these worthies started and were soon in the hamlet of 
 Stibb. 
 
 "Us can taak smith wi' us, he's a lusty man an know- 
 ledgable," said Tony. So smith Cardew was called and 
 made to understand the matter; and upon that came 
 along with hearty goodwill. 
 
 Tliey found Mr. Treague within his house. He had 
 breakfasted and was faring forth to the downs to see his 
 sheep, when thi" four mi^n entered flii' lionsr wi<lionl cere-
 
 1 82 Sir Bevill 
 
 mony. The man backed into his parlour when he saw who 
 were his visitors, and would have fastened the door, but 
 that Anthony interposed his foot. There were no men 
 about the house ; Treague's one man had been despatched 
 early in the morning with a boy to bring home some sheep. 
 After his work of yesterday, Zachary felt uncomfortable at 
 the visit of these men of such size and bearing, who were, 
 as he had too good reason to know, by no means friendly 
 disposed towards him. Tony pushed open the door and 
 entered with a grin on his face, as the other three followed 
 and ranged themselves opposite their victim. 
 
 "Master Treague," began Tony, "us put yii in th' 
 water yesterday, an' us be goin' to put yii thni the fire 
 to-day." 
 
 Mr. Treague blanched at this abrupt commencement, and 
 then tried to bluster. " What mean you men by breaking 
 into my house against the law ? " 
 
 " Law ! " quoth Pokinhorne, " law ? didst say ? We've a 
 broft a man of law wi' us. Master Treague, who shall per- 
 pend and Hkewise dispound the law to you. Mr. Titus, wilt 
 thou concern thyself with this murdering child of Satan ? " 
 
 " Man," began Tite, " alias Treague, alias Zachariah 
 Treague, murderer. Thee hast murdered a woman, to wit, 
 one Mistress Zippora Polsuth. These three worthy gentle- 
 men with their own proper eyes saw and superspected the 
 act committed by thee, whereby umprimus thou didst 
 unlawfully cause one Zippora Polsuth to be tied to a chair, 
 and then an' furthermore put under water by thy minions 
 so as to cause the aforesaid Mistress Polsuth to be ducked 
 uvver head an' ears in the water, whereby and accord- 
 ingly, and very vilely, the said woman daied by thy means 
 this morning at three of the clock. What hast thou to say 
 in disrespect of this, and why thou shouldest not be at once 
 hanged by the neck till thou be dead ? "
 
 TDSV l-t'XIIKn orKN TIIK DiH)K, AND I'.N rlJ<IJ> Willi A <.|;IN "IN Ills !■ ACI'.
 
 Ho^d) Treagiie ijas }uade to Pay 183 
 
 "You don't know that the witch is dead. You come 
 here to frighten and annoy me ; I will have you punished." 
 His voice shrilled into a scream of fear, for the three big 
 men looked threatening, and there seemed no way of 
 escape. 
 
 " Mistress Polsuth daied these very morning at three 
 o'clock as Master Titus hath said," put in Anthony. 
 
 " Have a care. Master Treague, or we may feel obligated 
 to hang thee at oncest," remarked Master Pokinhorne. 
 
 " It might be well, and perchance the safest and mostest 
 obligin' plan," said Tite, " but bein', as I be, a lawyer, I 
 prefer to see the law carr'd out in a proper an' business- 
 like manner. What say you, Master Treague, is there any 
 just cause or impeliment why you should not be hanged by 
 us to-day, speak now or be for ever silent ? " Tite looked 
 round triumphantly after this flight of eloquence. Treague 
 looked at his foes one after another, screwing up his little 
 j)ig-like eyes, and leaning his head forward at them. 
 
 " I suppose you men think to — to frighten me by this 
 talk. You — you — fancy you will get something by it." 
 He shook in every joint as if he had the palsy. " You 
 won't; you shan't"; he screamed with the courage of 
 despair, and his eyes roved round to an iron box in the 
 corner of the room. 
 
 Tite followed his look, and pointing to the box said in his 
 most solemn tone, "Smith, put that box thee seest there 
 on the table." 
 
 "Don't touch it, it's empty," burst out the wretch. The 
 smith had to use all his strengtii to lift it, while Anthony 
 placed himself in the way of its owner. 
 
 " A murderer's property," said Tite, " belongeth to the 
 Crown. For present purpose we \y(t the Crown, an' 
 crowned we mean to be." 
 
 You can't ojien it," said Treague, " and you arc 
 
 II
 
 1 84 Sir Bevill 
 
 stronger than me. Come now, what will you four take to 
 go and leave me in peace. This jest has gone far already. 
 You shall be crowned as you say ; I'll give you a crown 
 apiece to go, and I'll say nothing about it." And he 
 peered into their faces eagerly. 
 
 " A pretty crown," said Tite, " take four crowns to let off 
 a murderer, when we've a-got him red-handed and all that 
 he has. Tony, thee can'st car' that box to Stowe, an' land- 
 lord an' Master Cardew can bind the murderer, an' taake 
 him there. Sir George Smith is, as you may say, a noble 
 judge, and he is there to do justice on all such, gentle or 
 simple, as commits capical crimes. Of course. Sir George 
 may see fit to make it a crime that can be fined for, in 
 place of bein', as I may say, hanged for. I've a-heerd of a 
 man as war' fined a thousand pounds for kiUin' of a man 
 by accidense. Now if we should testify to accidense, 
 what's to prevent us from finin' he a thousand pounds ? 
 How say you, gentlemen of the jury. You, Anthony 
 Payne ; you, Master Pokinhorne — not a-knowin' on your 
 Christian name — what say you. Mister smith Nathan ? " 
 
 Pokinhorne replied : 
 
 " We all says, fine 'im." 
 
 " Shall it be so little as one thousand pounds," inquired 
 Tite, " or shall we say two ? " 
 
 " You can say what you like, but you can get no 
 thousand here. I will swear any oath that I have not a 
 hundred pounds. ' May I be damned to all eternity, if 
 I have.' " 
 
 " That's a big oath, Master Treague, let us see if it be a 
 tru 'un. Open that there box, or smith shall weth his 
 hammer." 
 
 Then Tony spoke. " There was a man inScriptur' as give 
 up a tenth part of his spoils. I say us'll turn out these 
 box an' taake a tenth pairt as a fine for this here misdoin',
 
 Holu Treague was made to Pay 185 
 
 supposin' as how he dedn' meaa to murder she, which I 
 reckon as he did." 
 
 This very clear and explicit decision pleased the four 
 judges, and as Treague was slow in finding the key of his 
 box, Master Pokinhorne found means to quicken him by 
 taking out a piece of cord and tying a noose in it. This, 
 he pointed out to Treague, was the alternative, and 
 advised him to be quick, as they might change their minds 
 and settle to take all the contents instead of a tenth only. 
 
 At last the key was produced, the box opened, and the 
 contents poured out on the table. It proved to be mostly 
 silver, and when counted by Pokinhorne and Tite, 
 amounted to just over four hundred pounds. They 
 solemnly counted out forty pounds, ten to each of the four, 
 and then bade Treague put the rest back and lock up his 
 box. 
 
 "There," said Tite, when all was finished, "we've let 
 thee off, dirty rascal though thou be, an' a murderer to 
 boot, an' if thou sayest aught about this money we will get 
 thee hanged as sure as sun's in the heavens. Thee'st got 
 off cheap. Ef I had had my way thy neck should ha' be'n 
 twisted weth a rojxi." 
 
 So saying, the conspirators departed with their more than 
 questionably gotten gains. Anthony committed to the 
 care of Tite five pounds of his share, and left him to pay 
 the father of his tall sweetheart for the loss of his cob.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 LADY JANE READS BEVILL S THOUGHTS 
 
 AT Trebursey the storm kept Mr. Gedie and his guests 
 close prisoners in the house. To the Lady Jane the 
 war of the elements brought no sense of uneasiness. 
 She watched the steel-blue flashes as they swept across the 
 sky, or descended in straight or zigzagged Hnes in front of the 
 great bay windows of the north drawing-room. John Eliot 
 seemed to feel the electric shock in every fibre of his body, 
 and had retired to a room on the other side of the house. 
 With him sat Mr. Gedie and his daughter. Bevill stood 
 by the side of Jane and watched her face of excited enjoy- 
 ment, tinged with awe. 
 
 " No wonder the ancients believed that such glorious 
 flames came straight from the hand of the God of Heaven, 
 Mighty Jove, the thunderer, is a very present power. 
 
 'rubente 
 Dextera sacras jaculatiis areas 
 Terruit urbem. ' 
 
 It does not fear me, Master Granville, but it stirs an 
 emotion different from any other; does it so with you ?" 
 
 " To me," he replied, shading his eyes with his hand as a 
 vivid flash seemed almost to strike the glass of the window, 
 the single cracking peal of thunder coming with the flash, 
 "to me it is a memory always of one day. Walking in a 
 wood near Oxford, at Bagley, I was overtaken by a
 
 Lady Jane reads Beviir s Thoughts 187 
 
 thunderstorm which soaked me to the skin in a few 
 moments ; the lightning shivered two trees, one on either 
 side of my path. I remember lying down on the wet 
 ground and repeating to myself the whole of that Ode of 
 Horace which you have but now quoted. When I got up 
 to return to Oxford, I found in the wood, not two hundred 
 yards from me, a man Ijing on his face in the path, struck 
 dead. He was ill-clad, and had a large pointed knife in his 
 hand, not a dagger but a common knife evidently sharpened 
 to a point to be used for a dagger. I have always believed 
 that he was following me with evil intent, and " — he added 
 softly as if to himself — " I have daily prayed for that man's 
 soul." Lady Jane was silent. 
 
 Bevill was a surprise to her in more ways than one, A 
 reserve strength of will she had recognised at once, but the 
 cultured mind, the deep religious feeUng, evidently so abso- 
 lutely true and simple, had not been evident under the 
 joyous, youthful, almost boyish expression of his face. A 
 handsome face it was, with those bright blue eyes, so clear 
 and fearless. His figure square, and set for his age, gave 
 signs of strength and powers of endurance beyond that of 
 most men. 
 
 " You must find the contrast great," she said at last, 
 " between Oxford and your Cornish coast, which you tell 
 me is so wild and rugged. It would be grand to watch 
 such a storm as this over the great ocean." 
 
 " Aye, lady, many a time have I witnessed such — nay, I 
 am wrong, not many a time, for this is a greater storm 
 than often comes, but I have seen such twice, or jierchance 
 even thrice. How the old ocean talks to you when you 
 know it. Sly, faithless and cruel, yet it will speak truth at 
 times if you listen and understand." 
 
 " Faithless and yet true, Master Granville, a strange 
 coupling, is it not ? "
 
 1 88 Sir Bevill 
 
 " To man faithless, yes, and cruel, yes, but to God true, 
 ' fulfilling His word.' We pin our faith, I fear, too often 
 on that which we deem should be the outcome, the conse- 
 quence, of another's action, and therein, in human beings, 
 in friends, are often deceived. Yet it may not be they that 
 are faithless, but we who are mistaken in our calculations. 
 I have studied mechanics — but a very little way I allow — 
 just enough to convince me of my own great ignorance, 
 but even that little has shown me that when our premises 
 are sound and true we can rely on the results absolutely. 
 Now as to the ocean, we premise, but are often mistaken, 
 and then, when our conclusions are wrong, we call the 
 ocean fickle and faithless, but 'tis the fault of our own 
 ignorance. Even so, is it not, with our friends ? " 
 
 He paused abruptly — a shadow of doubt crossed his 
 mind like a cloud shadow on a hillside. Were there not 
 those who had relied on him to return and give succour to 
 a poor friendless old woman, that might be tortured this 
 very day for all he knew ? And then another thought 
 followed in the train of the first. How would his Grace 
 bear to hear that he had been warned, and had not 
 returned ? And why had he not ? Might it not be told 
 her that he was in attendance on this fair lady by his 
 side — his father's old friend's daughter — one of the beauties 
 of the Court ? What would Grace think ? She who was quite 
 as cultured as this Lady Jane, but who was so reserved that 
 it was given to few to know the depths of her character. 
 Grace was no dull country-bred child, to go through life 
 with half-closed eyes and unawakened brain. He was 
 roused from these bewildering thoughts by Lady Jane. 
 
 " Master Granville, T have been reading thy thoughts for 
 now near five long''^ minutes. Shall I recount them to 
 thee ? ■ Imprimis, man is not to be relied upon because we 
 cannot read him aright. So far am I correct ? "
 
 Lady Jaiic reads Bev ill's Tho lights 189 
 
 "Quite, mistress." 
 
 " Next, thou didst proceed, ' can I read myself, so as to 
 be able to say before God and man, such and such was my 
 duty, have I fulfilled it ? ' Was that a doubtful point ? " 
 " Madam, you read thoughts." 
 
 "And next," she went on remorselessly, "there came 
 into thy mind another woman with whom thou didst com- 
 pare me, I mean of course " — and Lady Jane coloured as 
 she spoke — " I mean as to her judgment. It may have 
 been thy sister ? " 
 " It was not my sister, lady," said honest Bevill. 
 " I thought 'twas not, for thine eyes looked closely at 
 my mouth, my Hps, for 'tis ever the hps that give judg- 
 ment ; is it not, fair sir ? " 
 
 " I think you are a greater witch than Zippora Pol- 
 suth." 
 
 " And who may she be ? fair and young, I hope ! and 
 shall I lose in the comparison ? " 
 
 " Nay ; old and carc-seamcd, I ani told, but I have never 
 set eyes ujkju her." 
 
 "Then is there no damsel, young and beautilul, that hath 
 witched thine heart ? " 
 
 licvill crimsoned now to his brow. 
 
 She had driven him hard and mercilessly and read his 
 thoughts only too well. Should he make her the confidante 
 of his heart ? He paused, and the possible moment passed ; 
 Mr. Gcdic entered the room. 
 
 " L(jrd Kxmoor is seeking tluc, l.-uiy \-\\u- ; a messenger 
 has come bidding him Iiiist(j to I'lynu>utli and he wishes to 
 speak with thee." 
 
 Mr. Gedie remained uitli Bevill. 
 
 " Thy father, lad, is he well and hearty ? lie seems to 
 have left politics alone. 'Tis seventeen ycai-s since he sat 
 in Parliament. 'Twas the year after being High Sheriff of
 
 1 90 Sir Beviil 
 
 the county. Thou wast too young in '99 to remember the 
 drilhng of a thousand men on the bowhng-green at Stowe. 
 Aye, I was there, and a finer body of men never came to 
 the call of our gracious Queen. Sure, Cornwall did its 
 duty." 
 
 " True, sir, I was young, but I can well remember that 
 gathering and the sound of their feet, as they moved to- 
 gether on the grass, I was five years old and deemed myself 
 a man that day. There is no self-confidence like that of 
 very early youth." 
 
 " Right, lad, very right. Well, 'twas a time to be re- 
 membered. We had beaten Spain, and not once only, as 
 thou knowest. Ah, that seventeen hours' fight of thy 
 grandsire against the whole Spanish fleet ! How England 
 thrilled to her core as she learned the story two and twenty 
 years agone. 'Twas the memory of that day and night 
 that fired Cornwall in '99 at the rumour of another Spanish 
 assault, and brought no less than six thousand volunteers 
 into the field. Verily the dead hero's voice was more 
 powerful in death even than in hfe. And I can tell you, 
 young sir, that we who heard him never forgot that glorious 
 sound. I never hear read the word, ' His voice was as 
 the sound of many waters,' without thinking of Sir Richard 
 Granville on Plymouth Ho." 
 
 " I thank thee, sir, for these words, they warm my heart, 
 and enforce a prayer that if ever another such peril should 
 occur I may have grace to bear myself in Hke manner." 
 
 Mr. Gedie looked at the fair open young face and recog- 
 nised that the grandsire's mantle had fallen and would 
 abide to the end. 
 
 " Is thy father alone ? " he asked at length. 
 " Nay, Sir George Smith and his daughter Grace are with 
 him, besides my sister Gertrude, who is blooming into 
 womanhood."
 
 Lady Jane reads Beviir s Thoughts 191 
 
 " Sir George I know well, a most worthy knight, and 
 Mistress Grace and her mother I have seen once. The maid 
 was fair, and very pleasant withal to converse with. She is 
 thy cousin, is she not ? Thy father called my lady her 
 mother, aunt." 
 
 " Nay, sir, she is not related, save by marriage, to my 
 father. She was married twice ; first to an uncle of my 
 mother. Hence my father has ever called her aunt." 
 
 " Ah, then. Mistress Grace is not your cousin." Good 
 Mr. Gedie had a pleasant habit of talking to himself aloud 
 without a suspicion that he was heard, so he added solilo- 
 quising but quite audibly, " That is all right ; no greater 
 mistake than the wedding of cousins." So saying he came 
 close to Bevill, and laying his hands on his shoulder in a 
 fatherly way remarked : 
 
 " You find the Lady Jane a very agreeable companion. 
 So do most people ; she hath broken many hearts, but not 
 her own ; no certainly, not her own. As speaks Posthumus 
 of whom our Shakespeare tells us in Cymbeline : 
 
 ' She hath lived in Court 
 (Which rare it is to do), most praised, most loved ; 
 A sample to the youngest, to the more mature 
 A glass that feated them, and to the graver 
 A child that guided dotards.' 
 
 She hath a rare soul, ])ut let her not break thy heart. The 
 storm is waning, so's the day; shall wc find John Eliot ? "
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 VULCAN'S LEAP RECALLS BEVILL TO HONOUR AND DUTY 
 
 CLEAR, keen and bright the morning broke on the 
 following day. In the far east Cawsand Beacon 
 wore a veil of white mist, but Yes Tor and Black 
 Down caught the morning sun. 
 
 Bevill was up and in the stable early. Great Vulcan gave 
 him welcome from his stall ; fit to go, but full of flesh, his 
 cunning old head thrust back over his shoulder to greet 
 the master he loved, he trampled in his joy, and shook his 
 heavy mane. 
 
 " Thou shalt carry mc to-day, old man. I will risk no 
 fair lady's life and limb to thy tempestuous tricks." He 
 patted his old friend, and fed him with a piece of bread 
 and a lump of sugar, which he loved. 
 
 John Eliot could not ride, his head still reeled and 
 ached from yesterday's storm, and his Rhadagund stayed 
 to soothe his pain with the touch of her soft hand. After 
 breakfast two horses only were saddled, for the Lady Jane 
 and Bevill. The palfrey for the lady. Bevill wondered 
 how she would take the silent denial of her wish, but she 
 only looked Ijotli horses over and mounted the smaller 
 steed without a word. The great stallion bent his back 
 and reared as Bevill mounted, then gave a sudden bound, 
 threw up his head, seized the bit in his teeth, and made a 
 rush as if he would clear the entrance gate. Then at a 
 word, for his rider never moved in the saddle nor even
 
 Bevill recalled to Hoiioitr and Duty 1 93 
 
 tightened the rein, lowered his head and subsided. Jane 
 Exe rode to his side and they paced forth together. 
 
 " A long ride shall it be, my lady, or a gallop on the 
 Cornish moors hard by ? " 
 
 " Oh, a long ride, sure, Master Granville." 
 
 "Lidford in Devon is ten miles as the crow flies, and 
 then we are on Darty-moor and can go as we list. But 
 'twill tire you much, I fear." 
 
 " Lead on, sir. I will promise to cry out when I am 
 tired, but methinks I shall not be the first unless Vulcan 
 changes his mood." 
 
 For the horse was straining now at the bit, and it was as 
 much as his master could do to hold him ; the fever of the 
 storm seemed bounding in his veins to-day. 
 
 " I feared to let thee ride him. He is not young, and 
 hath ways which need not only strength of arm but know- 
 ledge of his moods." 
 
 She looked hard at her companion, noting the square 
 cut of his chin and the set of his lips as he sat, perfect 
 master of the strong unrestful beast beneath him. She 
 had not been used to meet a master-spirit in a boy. The 
 knowledge of it, the brisk movement of her quick, active 
 palfrey, the sharp coolness of the air roused and quickened 
 her blood, and as again she looked long and earnestly at 
 the lad, a feeling, to which she had hitherto been a stranger, 
 leaped into her heart. A wild thought crossed her brain. 
 Should she enter the lists with this girl of whom she had 
 heard ; this country cousin, of whose name she was 
 ignorant, but wlio was said to be his sweetheart ? Not 
 much of a victory over such an one, she thought, but as 
 she turned again to Vulcan's master, ' To outshine a 
 country maiden were not much, but to turn him from his 
 purpose ! Aye, that were work for greater power than 
 mine.' The temptation to such a spirit as hers was almost 
 
 N
 
 194 '5'/> B evil I 
 
 ovenvhelming. At that moment Bevill turned in his 
 saddle and met the look in her eyes. Surely she was 
 changed. The brilliant tints beneath the clear olive skin 
 were there, the fair broad brow showed clear beneath her 
 hat, straight and strong the eyebrows still, and the firm 
 hps, so delicate and yet so ripely red, but something in the 
 eyes had transformed the face and made its beauty seven- 
 fold greater. Her figure, round and firm, strong and yet 
 so phant! As he looked it seemed to him that he had 
 never really taken in the perfection of her beauty before, 
 and his heart beat fast and furious as he gazed. He felt as 
 if he could ride, and ride on with her for ever. Should he 
 stretch out his arm and gather her from her horse to his, 
 and clasp her to his breast ? He felt that even that were 
 possible, and as her face softened and her glance fell 
 beneath his own he could scare restrain his hand from 
 darting out to hers. He reined in Vulcan and drew closer 
 to her side. Jane looked up in his eyes as he bent down. 
 He could feel her sweet breath on his face. 
 
 " My lady," he murmured, " one said to me that thou 
 art cold as ice. Hath the soft wind of Devon blowing so 
 sweetly over the long sweep of these great downs brought 
 to thy heart a warmth unkindled before ? " 
 
 " Nay, Master Granville, I have ridden over downs as wild 
 and as sweet as these, though never perchance where the 
 flaming gorse so fills the air with perfume. But, then," 
 and she cast down her eyes, and the long black lashes 
 swept her glowing cheeks, "I have never ridden over downs 
 with so brave a squire before." 
 
 Bevill could scarce beUeve his ears. He trembled to his 
 very finger-tips with excitement. 
 
 " It were good, fair lady, to be thy squire, to serve thee, 
 
 with the service of arm and " 
 
 He paused.
 
 Bevill recalled to Honottr and Duty 195 
 
 " And what, Master Granville, what is it that thou dost 
 desire to give and yet withholdest from my service ? " 
 
 "Oh, Jane, most fair, most beautiful of women. How 
 canst thou speak to me like this ? If only my heart — if I 
 had but known " 
 
 His hand was on hers. For a moment he felt its soft 
 pressure and looked into her upturned gaze. The next 
 Vulcan came to his rescue. The branch of a tree struck by 
 yesterday's lightning, or broken by the storm, lay fallen 
 half across the road ; his horse, disdaining to turn aside, 
 bounded over it with a leap that, horseman as he was, 
 almost threw him on to Vulcan's neck, and called him back 
 to honour and duty. 
 
 Yet the vision and the temptation had been there. That 
 pressure of her hand, the subtle sense of sympathy, told him 
 that she had gauged his impulse, and unless she herself had 
 yielded to a like sensation for the moment, she would hold 
 him ever in scorn as a faithless man. Incontinently he 
 struck spurs into his horse and darted ahead of his fair 
 companion. 
 
 Faster and faster still up a long winding ascent the great 
 horse sped, and at his flank the palfrey galloped yet, unable 
 quite to reach his neck, but would not be left behind. The 
 lady's clear voice cut the air : 
 
 " It seemeth to me, fair sir, that you are anxious to dis- 
 cover whether it be not possible for you to leave your com- 
 panion in the lurch ; but my palfrey and I are of a different 
 opinion. We scorn to be outdone, even by so mighty a 
 horse and his rider." 
 
 Bevill burst into a joyous laugh, and reined in Vulcan to 
 a walk. Then looking straight in front of him he spoke. 
 
 " 'Twas yesterday, my lady, that I well-nigh spoke out 
 to you words to which I would ask of your kindness and 
 grace to listen now."
 
 1 96 Sir Bevill 
 
 He paused, and Lady Jane for a moment almost longed 
 to close his mouth lest he should speak that which, however 
 much she desired to hear it, might cause sorrow and confu- 
 sion. For once she had misread him, expecting words of love 
 towards herself, but she tightened her lips, and looking up 
 in his face said quietly and with unusual meekness, "Any 
 words, Master Granville, that you may wish, pray speak, 
 and I can promise kindness in the listening." 
 
 Still he looked before him. " You asked me if there were 
 at home a damsel that had bewitched my heart. You are 
 so beautiful and so true yourself, and withal so quick in your 
 perceptions, that you will not wrong her in thought when I 
 say that indeed it is true ; I have these years been devoted in 
 heart to one who, though called my cousin, is not really so. 
 Her mother, the lady of Sir George Smith, of Exeter, was 
 formerly married to an uncle of my mother's ; we therefore 
 called her aunt ; but Grace, her daughter, is child of her 
 second husband, and I have known and loved her long. 
 If," and he blushed crimson as he paused, " if. Lady Jane, 
 the excellent beauty of your fair face made me falter in my 
 loyalty, I crave your pardon for the wrong done to your sex 
 by me. There, I have made my confession, and throw my- 
 self on your mercy to give or withhold plenary absolution." 
 
 "It seemeth to me. Master Granville, that if I give thee 
 absolution I shall resolve thee from that admiration which 
 thou tell'st me is my due ! Oh, foohsh boy, here is my 
 hand, kiss it and be friends. I am years thine elder and 
 will ever be a loving sister to thee. Aye, and to thy Grace 
 too, for I know this much now, that where thou lovest that 
 place will be worthy of thy love." 
 
 She held her hand across to him and he raised it 
 reverently to his lips. 
 
 " So help me God, lady, if ever thou needest a squire's 
 help that I may give, it is thine."
 
 Bevill recalled to Honour and Duty 1 97 
 
 " And now, fair sir, surely this is the moor to our left, we 
 need not turn to yon old castle which I see, but ride up the 
 height and breathe the fresh breath that comes from your 
 western sea on yonder heaven-kissing hill." 
 
 So together they rode up to the great tor above them, 
 and galloped round, barely escaping a treacherous Dart- 
 moor bog, and so home to Trebursey by another track. 
 But fair Jane was somewhat silent. She could not pride 
 herself on a victory, and for once her insight had failed her. 
 Could the boy have guessed, she wondered, how near she 
 had been to surrender ? Well, he was one of ten thousand 
 and she had secured him for a friend, a friend, too, that 
 would never fail her.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 ELIOT S FEARS FOR HIS FRIEND BEVILL 
 
 LADY JANE and her squire were late in returning from 
 their ride. On arriving at Trebursey just before the 
 supper hour of five, Bevill found that a lad on a horse 
 had come over from Stowe with a letter from his father. 
 They had had trouble concerning the women at Coombe, a 
 posse of men and lads had thrown the woman Polsuth into the 
 river, whence she had been drawn out by Anthony Payne, 
 who had in turn cast Master Treague with much violence 
 into the water ; hence further trouble would certainly 
 arise. Finally he begged Bevill to return to Stowe on the 
 Monday, and recommended his faithful service to his son's 
 host, Mr. Gedie, and also to his good friend. Lord Exmoor, 
 and his fair daughter, both of whom he would gladly 
 welcome at his poor house at Stowe if they would demean 
 themselves by accepting of his hospitality. 
 
 The lad was despatched by Bevill at once with a verbal 
 message to say that he would ride back on the Monday. 
 
 Supper over, the ladies retired, and John Eliot, re- 
 covered from his headache, began to discuss the Short 
 Parliament to which he had been, for the first time, elected 
 as member for St. Germans. When a Parhament would be 
 again called neither he, nor any one, could tell, but he was 
 anxious that his friend Bevill Granville should seek election 
 whenever the time arrived. Independent men were needed
 
 Eliofs fears for his friend Bevill 1 99 
 
 to stand up for the rights and Hberties of the Parliament 
 and the nation. 
 
 "We need men," he explained to his father-in-law, 
 " who, while true and loyal to the King, while holding the 
 necessity of the King's prerogative, which none may dispute, 
 are still upholders of the privileges of Parliament. There 
 are doubts and fears on both sides. His Majesty seems to 
 doubt the liberties of Parhament intrenching on his pre- 
 rogative, while Parliament feels that, by his prerogative, he 
 may seek to retrench and block up the ancient privileges 
 of the House. Now these doubts and fears are the outcome 
 of suspicion, and suspicion arises from backbiters, go- 
 betweens and the carriers of scandal." 
 
 " What mean you by that, Master Eliot ? " inquired 
 Lord Exmoor. " You would not have your meetings of 
 the nation's Parhament held in camera ? " 
 
 " No, but I would not have it misreported. Hence the 
 jealousies that have arisen. And my great desire is to see 
 the House purged of such mischievous men, which can best 
 be done by the increase in it of men like my friend here 
 from Stowe." 
 
 " But," put in Bevill, " we know not when men will be 
 called upon to serve. Sure, if Parhament were to meet 
 year by year regularly, men would know what to be at, and 
 prepared for the election, as well as for upholding of ques- 
 tions which they approve." 
 
 "True," said Mr. Gcdie, " l)ut the meeting of Parliament 
 rests solely and wholly on the will of the Sovereign ; we 
 can never expect a ruler to give up his inherent right, and 
 allow Parliament to sit as a matter of course." 
 
 " Perhaps not," said Eliot ; "we may not be ripe for so 
 much as that, it will come in time. But the way towards 
 such a consummation is by securing the harmonious work 
 of Parliament and King together, for the good of the nation,
 
 200 Sir Bevill 
 
 and then the people will be ready to elect, and the King to 
 seek the service of the nation's council." 
 
 So they discussed questions long settled by us, who 
 wonder that men can ever have doubted the wisdom of 
 such measures. Bevill was greatly struck with the fore- 
 sight and entire devotion of his friend to the welfare of his 
 country. 
 
 How vividly this conversation must have recurred to his 
 memory when, nine years after, he sat by Ehot in Parlia- 
 ment and listened to his stirring words — words which 
 moved the whole House to enthusiasm. 
 
 " I doubt not, Mr. Speaker," he is reported to have said, 
 " when his Majesty shall truly weigh us and our loyalties, 
 and compare us with the former time, but he will be pleased 
 to grant what we now ask. Which as it will beget con- 
 fidence, so will it add diligence to our endeavours both for 
 the general good, and his Majesty's particular satisfaction. 
 Let us take prudent counsel, that it may not, after much 
 travail and time, be said of us as it was of the sailor, who, 
 when taken from his harbour, and with contrary winds and 
 seas much tossed in a long storm, was enforced at length to 
 put back again, ' Non multum ille navigabit, sed multum 
 jactatus est.' Let not our epitaph be, that the trouble and 
 danger incurred by us was more than the profit of the 
 journey." 
 
 It is no purpose of this narrative to attempt to harmonise 
 the discordant notes of those stormy meetings. Men of 
 great name, hke Sir Robert Phelips and Sir Robert Coke, 
 differed from Eliot only as to means, but the seething had 
 begun and none at that day could forecast the end. 
 
 On that evening at Trcbursey the four gentlemen, of 
 whom two were destined to be makers of history, discussed 
 far into the night subjects of high policy. All marvelled at 
 the wisdom, the research and aptness of quotation and 
 
 / 
 
 X
 
 Eliofs fears for his friend Bevill 20 1 
 
 parallel adduced by Eliot. Bevill was charmed and fired 
 by his words, though he could not agree altogether with his 
 friend's idea that to secure the co-operation of King and 
 Parliament secrecy as to their discussions should be 
 observed. 
 
 All were united in desire to uphold the prerogative of 
 the Crown. His Majesty was to them His most sacred 
 Majesty, whatever their judgments as to his words, writings 
 or manners. But that he and his people should work 
 together harmoniously for the benefit of the nation was the 
 end and object of their desires. 
 
 It was past eleven when they parted for their respec- 
 tive chambers, but even then Eliot lingered with his 
 friend. 
 
 " Bevill, lad, art very tired ? Wearied too, I ween, with 
 our long discussion, which has not been, as I could well 
 perceive, quite to thy open fearless mind." 
 
 "Nay, John, I count not myself one whit more fearless 
 than thyself, but I do love to have all things above-board." 
 " All things, Bevill ? " and the look of deep interest and 
 affection discounted the suspicion of the question. 
 
 " Aye, all things. What meaning lurks in that 
 question ? " 
 
 " Didst enjoy thy ride to-day, lad ? " The question did 
 not seem to convey a reply, but Bevill blushed as he 
 answered : 
 
 " Hadst thou been with us, John, thou shouldst have been 
 welcome to hear every word that passed between a very 
 fair lady and thine unworthy friend." 
 
 " She is very fair," and EUot paused ; " and— and — almost 
 always — very wise." 
 
 " Come, John, no secrets with me ; what mean you, sir ? 
 ' Almost always ' is hardly fair on one of the wisest I have 
 ever seen."
 
 202 Sir Bevill 
 
 "That is just it, lad. She is so beautiful, and so wise, 
 that she is tempted now and again to use that beauty and 
 wisdom to lead hearts into a stronger captivity than some 
 know how thence to make escape. I could see thine eyes 
 rest on her continuously at supper, feasting on her beauty, 
 and I own I trembled. For, dear friend, do I not know 
 the charm of her whom thou hast won, fair, holy and wise ? 
 I dread lest I have brought thee here to have thine 
 heart made ache. Make Jane thy friend, but be not thou 
 her lover." 
 
 " Dear John, it is not in me to resent such words as these, 
 for they run concurrent with my own mind. What thou 
 advisest that have I done. Please God, she is my friend." 
 EHot looked hard and long into the frank clear face of his 
 friend, which he had learned to read like an open book, was 
 satisfied, and went happy to bed.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE LAST OF AUNTY ZIP 
 
 GREAT was Bevill's surprise on returning to Stowe to 
 find that Sir George Smith and his daughter had left 
 some hours before, and had taken the road through 
 Torrington to Exeter. Only his father and his sister Ger- 
 trude, a girl of seventeen, were at home. 
 
 Bevill delivered to his father Mr. Gedie's messages of 
 greeting, hkewise Lord Exmoor's regrets that he was not 
 at this time able to avail himself of the Knight's kind invi- 
 tation. 
 
 " But wherefore have Sir George and Mistress Grace so 
 soon departed ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Sir George has business to attend to in Exeter ; and, to 
 tell truth, I fear that Mistress Grace found Stowe somewhat 
 dull compared with the gaieties of Exeter. She was 
 marvellous well pleased with our old church at Kilk- 
 hampton, where, had we not drawn her away, I believe she 
 would have spent the whole of yesterday. Master Oliver 
 Rowse had much ado to expound to her the beauties of 
 that ancient doorway, and to describe the carvings which 
 my good father liad caused to be done. It seemed to me 
 that good Master Rowse had but little liking for works of 
 ancient days, over which Mistress Smith expended much 
 time and most careful examination. He doth not approve 
 the carving of a crown over the letter M, by which the 
 Popish craftsman desired to honour the Virgin, on which
 
 204 Sir Bevill 
 
 the young lady demanded of him, would he prefer it over 
 the letter R. So he said no more. She hath a quick 
 tongue." 
 
 That afternoon Bevill hastened down to Coombe. He 
 found Lizzie coming across from her father's house where she 
 had been minding the children while her mother was helping 
 to prepare her poor aunt's body for its last resting-place in 
 Morwenstowe churchyard. Mr. Paschowe, her husband, had 
 just finished making the coffin and was sitting on one of 
 the large unsawn pieces of timber outside his own house 
 " teUing " with old Digory Bowman, past ninety years of 
 age, who was saying : 
 
 " Be her wetch, or hain't her ? Thy wife must know now 
 for certain sure. Fer don'e see, ef so be her's wetch, 
 wetchmarks will be there. Thee cussin goo from that 
 nebber." 
 
 "Her ain't no more witch than thee beest, old Dig. Her 
 sister and my missis say the saame thing. Now I d' 
 waant to ask thee one question, and here's Mars' Bevill 
 shall hear thee ans'r it. Thee'st an aged man, and 
 thee'st seed many things, an' heard many things in thy 
 time. Didst ever hear tell of a man as was a witch ? 
 Now consider, Digory. Didst ever come acrost a man 
 wetch ? " 
 
 " 'Tes a difficult ques'n. Mars' Paschowe, en't it ? Ees, 
 I've a-heerd tell o' man wetches among they Injuns to 
 Amerkay, but I've never seed mun. They'm sort o' 
 doctors, they calls 'em mediciny men, 'tes queer name, 
 en't it ? but they'm not proper wetches, I d'think. 
 Them dark-skinned men be ferry formiliar with the devil, 
 I Sim." 
 
 " But let alone them Injuns and sech-like devil's traade ; 
 did 'e ever hear tell of a white man wetch ? " 
 " Not as I d'know, I never ded."
 
 The last of Ajinty Zip 205 
 
 " No, nor no one else, Mars' Bowman, an I'll tell 'ee for 
 why. 'Tes because the wemmen's weak an' fullish. Weak 
 in body they alus be, an' fullish in mind, fer they'm easy 
 turned about by tii things, an' they tii things be love an' 
 hate. They dii love quick an' hate quick, an' so they d' 
 act fullish oftentimes, an' being weak an' fullish, men dii 
 impose upon 'em, an' when they contraries men, the men 
 dii call them wetches, 'special if they be knowledgable 
 wemmen, an' old. Now, Mars' Bevill, arskin' yer honour's 
 pardon for makin' so free, here was old Zip Polsuth, the 
 men in Exeter, as shiid know better, worritted her about, 
 an' her dressed hersel' as an old man, an' come here ; an' 
 her bided quiet enough till that old varmint Zack Treague 
 put his ugly old nose in here. Damn him, he've chewed a 
 moor-stone post — as the sayin' is — these time, an' broke 
 hes teeth. Comes here, caals her wetch, an' that sly young 
 devil of a brother o' thine, no offence. Mars' Bevill, to yii, 
 he sets the boys on to help Treague, just for clean mischief, 
 He've a-got a devil in's inside, have Mars' Richard, an' the 
 siiner 'tes expelled the better fer he. 'Twas all hes works. 
 Grills' maid up to Ley have a-told her father all the saicret 
 of it ; an' 'tes a burnin' shaame, I tell 'ee, Mars' Bevill, an' 
 yii, old Dig, ef yii'll hearken. The wemmen say her've a- 
 got as clean a body's a maid, no wetch-mark, nor devil- 
 mark about her, nowise whatsomever. There, I've a-told 
 'ee." And Gilbert Paschowe looked straight at Bevill and 
 then down at Digory, with the face of an honest man who 
 defied contradiction. 
 
 " 'Tes gospel true, thy last word, Gilbert," said his wife, 
 who had come out of her cottage. 
 
 " Ees, 'tes trii, I b'heve," said Anthony Payne, who had 
 followed his master from Stowe. " And part payment us 
 have paid to Master Treague for his share. Me an' 
 Pokinhorne draw'd he into the wattcr, in away an' manner
 
 2o6 Sir Bevill 
 
 as 'e dedn' relish. No, 'e dedn' relish that," he repeated 
 with much satisfaction as he recalled the scene. 
 
 " Can I see grannie, Master Paschowe ? " inquired Bevill. 
 
 "Ees, sure. Her's sad, but her's upUfted. The Lord 
 hath warmed her heart and giv'd her His blessin.' Her's 
 bin praisin' the Lord all these mornin', ever since gild 
 Master Martyn come down from Rectory and prayed with 
 her biitiful. He'm a-goin' to bury her weth all respec', an' 
 make no charge for breakin' ground. Us wanted to ask 
 yer honour, hopin' no offence, that yer honour would grant 
 us the favor of bein' at the buryin' to-morrow. 'Tes a 
 graat favor to ask I d'know ; but 'twould do a site o' gud 
 to us folk." 
 
 "Certainly will I," said Bevill. "Wilt have Anthony 
 for a bearer ? I warrant he will go right willingly." 
 
 "Weth your worship's leave I surely will," put in 
 Tony. 
 
 And Bevill left them for a few words of consolation and 
 sympathy with Grannie Paschowe. 
 
 " It was a cruel thing, young sir, and my sister bore it 
 like a Christian woman, and that is where I take my com- 
 fort of her, for she had led a disturbed and curious life. 
 She was a very gifted woman, and gathered knowledge of 
 many kinds in many lands, and what she gathered she 
 could always use. Considering her hfe, I feared lest she 
 had forsaken religion, for she seldom went to church, and 
 would not go anigh a prayer meeting. She was brought up 
 a Catholic, sir, and though I never mention it, a Catholic 
 she continued to be, and had no love for Protestant forms 
 of worship." 
 
 " Yes," said Bevill, " of course most people of her age 
 were brought up in the old faith. She was past 
 seventy ? " 
 
 '■ Sir, she was seventy-seven. 'Tis not many that have
 
 TJie last of A2uity Zip 207 
 
 such a gift of the second sight, as some call it, as she had. 
 In times of storm especially, she seemed to know what was 
 coming, and when far away she would know what I had 
 done without word from me. 'Twas passing strange. 
 When my son James died — he was killed in 'ninety-one on 
 board the Revenge, with your grandfather — she saw him the 
 same night lying quiet and calm on the deck of the ship, 
 and told how the whole deck was covered with blood. 
 She was unUke other people in many ways." 
 
 " Did she pass peacefully ? " asked Bevill. 
 
 " No child ever went to sleep in mother's arms in greater 
 abundance of peace. Sir, she knew of her death before it 
 came and was ready. She said to me in the morning, 
 ' Sister, I am called and I must go.' She was not frightened 
 when they bound her to the chair, nor when let down into 
 the water, she was quiet and calm the while, never speaking 
 a word. She praised God before she died, and said, ' Now 
 in the hour of death, holy Mary, pray for me, Blessed Jesu 
 receive and pardon me.' " 
 
 " The funeral is at three to-morrow ? Yes, I will be 
 there, and Anthony shall help with the bearers ; shall I 
 tell him to bring any others ? I have no doubt but what 
 I could prevail upon Mr. Pokinhorne to assist, as he is still 
 at Stowe." 
 
 " I thank you, worshipful young sir ; if it please you, I 
 would thank you to request Nathan the smith to come, for 
 the hill is steep." 
 
 " Dost think there will be any trouble ? " 
 
 " Nay, sir, good Master Martyn is mightily friendly and 
 will have all things just in order, but 'tis well to be pre- 
 pared. Master Grills and his son have offered also to help 
 bear her to the church. Poor Barnaby Dick is deeply in 
 sorrow for the evil part he played, urged to it, alas, by 
 young Master Richard, and hath come to offer to do all in
 
 2o8 Sir Bevill 
 
 his power. My sister saw him and forgave the lad, who 
 shed many tears." 
 
 Bevill bade Anthony seek the smith and Mr. Pokinhorne, 
 and left old widow Paschowe, much touched by her gentle 
 courtesy and the evidence of the deep love which she bore 
 to her dead sister, but fully determined not to tell his father 
 about the funeral till after it was over.
 
 PART III 
 THE MASQUE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 MASTER DELAMERE 
 
 BEVILL'S mind was ill at ease at the early departure of 
 Grace and her father. In vain he questioned his sister. 
 She had been so unwell that she had scarce seen any- 
 thing of either of them, and from Tony he learned nothing. 
 The giant seemed to have something serious on his mind 
 which Bevill set down to concern for the trouble that had 
 come to his little sweetheart and her grandmother, though 
 if truth were told, he was ill at ease respecting the gold 
 pieces which he had helped to extort from the frightened 
 Treague. Of the ten pounds which Titc had paid for the 
 dead cob, he had given five, and five remained in his pos- 
 session, and that five lay heavy on his honest soul ; so 
 that when Bevill asked him some simple question as to 
 how he fared from Launceston. and whether he had suffi- 
 cient money to pay for his horse to reach Stowe, he grew 
 red in the face and replied incoherently. This his master 
 set down to quite another cause, suspecting that he was 
 ashamed of himself for having gossiped about the Lady 
 Jane. Notiiing more passed between them and before 
 night Bevill had made up his mind to leave as soon as 
 possible for London, and to take Madford on his way.
 
 2IO Sir Bevill 
 
 In the course of a few days things had settled down 
 quietly at Coombe, and Sir Bernarde was quite willing that 
 his son should see something more of London life. Accord- 
 ingly he encouraged him to make his way as soon as he 
 would to his former lodging at " Vreine's house on ye 
 backside of St. Clementes Church in Strand neire London." 
 He started the following week, and reaching Crediton lay 
 there at a friend's house and despatched a letter to the 
 Lady Smith asking permission to pay them a short visit 
 on his way to London. He was somewhat astonished 
 at the reply which he received by his messenger ; it ran 
 as follows : 
 
 " Dear Bevill, — I would faine persuade myself that 
 the afection which you have heretofore professed towards 
 us, and wh. wee so muche desyred to have been contini*^ 
 had not alltogether abayted. But I can gette so lit^ 
 comforte from my daughter in speekin of your dissposition 
 towards us at the present that I feel bounde to disswade 
 you to adventure yourselfe heere at this period, 
 
 " From youre affec*'' aunte, 
 " Grace Smith. 
 
 " To my nephe Master Bevill Grenvil. 
 
 " This w* speed." 
 
 His worst fears were confirmed. Grace must have 
 listened to some idle tale of Anthony's as to his ride with 
 the Lady Jane, dished up with abundant conjectures, 
 and was seriously displeased with him. 
 
 Full of anxiety, but seeing no present solution of his 
 difficulty, he made his way to London and again took up 
 his abode at Vreine's house in the Strand. Meeting Lord 
 Exmoor soon after his arrival walking with John Eliot, 
 he was introduced to their companion, a httle gentleman, 
 dressed in the height of fashion ; his lace was longer than
 
 Master Delmuere 2 1 1 
 
 that of either of his companions and hung low over his 
 shoulders and wrists, he wore his own hair, somewhat 
 tightly tied from a very high but rather receding forehead. 
 When he laughed, and laughter seemed a habit with him, 
 he threw his head back, and uttered a chuckle in his throat, 
 something between the subdued bray of a donkey and the 
 cackle of a laying hen ; his eyes were very bright, and he 
 gesticulated incessantly with his hands ; his rings glistened, 
 and the lace at his wrists seemed to fly around him. His 
 companions were evidently vastly amused, not only at 
 what he was saying, but at his methods of illustration. 
 On being duly presented to Bevill, he saluted him with a 
 most profound bow, and was overcome with the vastness 
 of the honour of making the acquaintance of one who bore 
 so illustrious a name. 
 
 " Sir, let me whisper it in your ear, his Majesty has the 
 honour of belonging to a younger, and not quite legitimate 
 branch, ha ! ha ! of your noble family." Here the little 
 gentleman was overcome with a sense of amusement. " I 
 had the pleasure of working at his pedigree for your wor- 
 shipful father only the last summer. A wonderful pedigree, 
 sir, a most marvellous and particular ]:)edigrce. I was but 
 now telling Master Eliot and his noble friend some of the 
 dangers which we, who study the noble science of heraldry, 
 discover in our researches. Ha ! lia ! my dear sir, my 
 very dear sir, an ape of a coxcomb, lately exalted (o the 
 peerage by his most gracious Majesty, came to mc t'other 
 day for a pedigree. 1 name no names, sir ; I am bound 
 by discr(;tion, I have my way to make in the world. (July 
 twenty-two last month, sir, and I carry in my head the 
 pedigrees of — well, sir, just all the peerage. Ha ! ha ! 
 I gave him a pedigree. My good sir, 1 had to omit nine 
 washerwomen and three rascals hung for sheep-stealing. 
 Ha ! ha ! all out of one pedigree, and then the miserly
 
 212 Sir Bevill 
 
 old devil cheated me out of half my fee. I beg your 
 worship's pardon for even hinting at my own wrongs. 
 Your worship has no washerwomen, not even a horse- 
 stealer or a cattle-lifter, in the whole line. Murderers, of 
 course, plenty of them, and after an exquisite and peculiar 
 fashion. Ha ! ha ! I could tell you a pretty tale of one 
 encounter — but that concerns his most sacred Majesty 
 as well as you. Your pardon, sir, I am taking you from 
 the conversation of your friends. Come and see me, sir; 
 come soon. My lodging is at the barber's in Whitehall. 
 I will write it for you, worshipful sir. Come soon ; yours 
 is a pedigree that I love to linger over. Your obedient 
 servant." And the little gentleman darted off at a tangent. 
 
 "He is a veritable wonder," said John Eliot. "That was 
 no idle boast of his ; he is but twenty-two and knows more 
 heraldry than the whole college. He will be a ' king at 
 arms ' before he is thirty. He can carry, as he says, the 
 pedigrees of the peerage in his head." 
 
 " Yes," added Lord Exmoor, " and furbish them up so 
 that the meanest goes crowing from him, as proud of his 
 scurvy ancestry as if the blue blood of all the Stuarts 
 and Plantagenets ran in his veins." 
 
 " His Royal Highness Prince Charles is vastly taken 
 with him, I hear," said Eliot. " Well, Bevill boy, you 
 have soon again deserted the west. Rhadagund will give 
 you a hearty welcome at our lodging. She is here with 
 me in town." 
 
 " You must give us also the pleasure of seeing you at 
 Exmoor House, Master Granville. My lady and Lady 
 Jane will make you very welcome for your own sake as 
 well as for your father's." 
 
 And so they parted for the time. On descending the hill 
 from St. Paul's Bevill came suddenly on a crowd of noisy 
 lads and serving-men waiting for their masters, mixed with
 
 Master Delamere 213 
 
 whom were several of the unkempt baser sort, who were 
 josthng two gentlemen of rather peculiar appearance. 
 One was a stout elderly man, extravagantly dressed in a 
 light blue velvet doublet with an abundance of lace and 
 finery about him, while his companion was no other than 
 the little herald. The latter wore no sword, but that of 
 his elder companion had evidently been taken from its 
 sheath by a rascal in the crowd, big, dirty, and strong, 
 who was whirling it about over the fat man's head ; mean- 
 while two of his companions were doing their best to rifle 
 his pockets. The crowd pushed them about and the small 
 herald was like to be thrown down in the mire. It was 
 the work of a moment for Bevill to be in the midst of them ; 
 a blow on the side of his head sent the dirty rufhan reeling, 
 and the fat gentleman picked up his own sword, which the 
 fellow dropped. The rest cleared away, nothing doubting 
 but that this new combatant was followed, as usual, by 
 stout serving-men. Bevill had not till then drawn his 
 sword, but thought it well to do so now in case he was 
 attacked, and the three were speedily left by the crowd, 
 which dispersed as quickly as it had gathered. 
 
 " Thousands, milHons of thanks, worshipful sir ; my 
 nose was being most confoundedly annoyed by the neigh- 
 bourhood of so much stinking human trash ; an ounce of 
 civet will hardly purify it. Your coming, and your voice, 
 to say nothing of your fist, worked wonders. I begin to 
 understand your noble grandfather's power of command. 
 My Lord Swaffem, let me present to you the worshijiful 
 Master Granville. Lord Swaffem, Master Granville, hath 
 a pedigree that would astonish even you. Sir, he is as deaf 
 as a fish, his nine washerwomen ancestresses, omitting 
 the highly scented purloiners of sheej), have not handed 
 down to him a pair of ears worth picking up in the 
 gutter."
 
 214 Sir B evil I 
 
 " Hey, Master Delamere, what's that about the gutter ? 
 'Sblood ! but I was near wallowing in it but now, had 
 not this good gentleman. Master Grubble, I think you said, 
 arrived to our assistance. Faith, I must even call a coach 
 myself ; what has become of my varlets I know not. 
 There were six of them started with me from home. 
 Drinking their wages, I will be bound, at some low 
 tavern." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! Yes, to be sure, they will drink their 
 wages — when they get them, young sir — and not before, 
 and that won't be presently. Here is a coach, my Lord, 
 allow me to assist you to it." 
 
 Turning round, after the fat man had scrambled in and 
 driven off, the herald took Bevill by the arm and begged 
 his company as far as his lodging. 
 
 When there, after supplying Bevill and refreshing him- 
 self with a draught of canary, he produced a book, thick, 
 but of no great size. This was filled with writing in a 
 minute hand, paged and indexed most carefully. 
 
 " There, sir, in this little volume hold I — well — not 
 perhaps the character of nigh all the peerage, and many 
 besides — but what many of them deem their claim to an 
 ancient and untarnished ancestry. Sir, as to bastardy, 
 an' I would, I could truthfully furnish half the great ones 
 of the world with a prodigality of hends sinister. 'Tis 
 my whip, sir, my whip, and I take it down when I want 
 the necessaries of life." 
 
 He smiled triumphantly as he looked round, and with 
 his eyes called attention to the treasures of art that adorned 
 his room. 
 
 " Yes, sir, this that you see is the price that many an 
 honest lord pays for the decent begetting of his forefathers ! 
 Well, sir, your good father set me to work on his worship's 
 ancestry, and I make bold to say to his son that a cleaner
 
 Master Delamere 215 
 
 line I have seldom seen. Can I get to the root of it ? 
 Damme, sir, the old gardener is good enough root for the 
 lot of us. Folks wants so much, sir. Now, an' a man hath 
 a good honest father and mother, what more can he want ? 
 You, sir, have also in addition a good grandfather and 
 grandmother, and then that man, who was d"owned before 
 the eyes of King Harry, and so on, and so on, for sixteen 
 generations from father to son. Father to son, sir, not 
 many can say that ! Brothers come in, uncles, nephews 
 and all kinds half and halves. Good Lord, look at that old 
 Swaffem's pedigree. Pah, sir, it stinks like his own fat 
 self. Gad, how he hates paying — but 'I make him, sir, 
 I make him pay." 
 
 And the little man lay back in his chair and kicked his 
 little feet in the air, then jumped up, performed a pirouette, 
 came down on his heels opposite Bevill, stuck his arms 
 akimbo and stared in his face. 
 
 Suddenly with a half grin, ending in a scowl, he de- 
 manded : " And wliat, sir, do you imagine is my own 
 name ? and how far can I trace my pedigree ? It con- 
 trasts, sir, with your own. Delamere ! Ha ! ha ! Dc- 
 la-mere. Yes, sir, picked out of the sea. My father's 
 name, I have reason to believe, was Cod, I know my mother's 
 name, for she was a gypsy called Polly Tud. Now Tud 
 means in their language milk, and was, I imagine, a nick- 
 name from her whiteness, which, your worship must 
 perceive, is my inheritance, also her eyes ; and above all 
 her brain. Tiie gypsy brain that never tires, sir ; never. 
 I could sit here and repeat to you one hundred pedigrees 
 in all their branches without stoi)ping or flagging for one 
 moment." 
 
 And the small man drew himself up, stood like a statue 
 for at least ten seconds before Bevill. Then whirling round 
 on one toe he seemed to fling the other over his head,
 
 2i6 Sir Bevill 
 
 caught the foot in his hand and sank slowly on to a low 
 stool. 
 
 " All brain and muscle," he murmured half aloud. " Sir, 
 your pedigree would be perfect could I emancipate the 
 seventeenth generation from the bog. But in the days of 
 the first Richard de Granville, surnames, as in my mother's 
 case, were somewhat accidental. He was called de Gran- 
 ville. He may have been a FitzHamon, son of Dentatus, 
 and therefore a cousin of Robert the Devil, the which 
 Robert begat the bastard Wilham, conqueror of England. 
 Damme, sir, you may claim to be King of England if 
 you like — say that Robert FitzHamon, son of Hamon 
 Dentatus, having no son, his brother and heir, Richard 
 de Granville, was the rightful heir to Robert the Devil, 
 and therefore Duke of Normandy, and therefore King of 
 England. Ha ! ha ! what will you give me to prove your 
 title to the throne in place of his most Sacred ? I tell 
 thee, sir, if that old Fawkes had blown up the King and 
 his lords, and had the children been murdered or kidnapped 
 as was intended, we should all have been looking about for 
 a king, and your worship would have served our turn 
 marvellous well. Methinks I see the proclamation : 
 ' There being no heir to the Crown of England, the said 
 Crown reverts to the legitimate heir of the Duke of Nor- 
 mandy, yclept Bevill Granville, rightful heir and descendant 
 of Robert the Devil. Oyez, Oyez ' — and devilish unlike 
 his Satanic Majesty." So saying he burst into a fit of un- 
 controlled laughter. 
 
 Bevill left Master Delamere, with many thanks for the 
 information as to his forebears — a matter which did not 
 appeal to his interest ; but the man himself interested 
 him greatly, and he purposed calling on him again. The 
 lodging was a good one, in a house owned by Master Wells, 
 a surgeon-barber of repute, who met Bevill at the door
 
 Master Delamere 217 
 
 and detained him to explain some of the glories of his 
 trade ; expounding to him his extensive assortment of 
 wigs, dies, patches and philtres, his collection of swords 
 and pistols, rare Toledo blades, and heavy pole-axes, 
 spiked clubs and suits of mail. Bevill purchased a sword 
 and made his way to his own lodging in the Strand.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 LADY jane's confession 
 
 WE meet again, Master Granville, surrounded by 
 scenes differing widely from those at Trebursey." 
 " The surroundings, madam, may vary, just as 
 you put a fair picture, say of beautiful scenery, or of a lovely 
 face, into a different frame, but the face or the landscape will 
 be the same ; there is little value in the frame considered by 
 itself. Here we have the picture," and he bowed his 
 acknowledgments to Lady Jane as he stood by her in 
 Exmoor House. 
 
 " I think. Master Granville, that I liked your refusal 
 of Vulcan for my riding better than such strained com- 
 pHments as your last. Tell me, how is that great noble 
 horse ? You have him not in town ? No ! Well then 
 next — not next in value — but tell me, have you seen the 
 lady, your cousin, since we parted. I am quite as much 
 in love with her as you are ! " 
 
 " My cousin and her father, I regret to say, were called 
 away before my return to Stowe. That witch-trial must 
 have much disquieted the minds of both. I fear she 
 blamed me for not being at hand to prevent it." Bevil^ 
 was leaning with his hands on a table, on the other 
 side of which stood the Lady Jane looking at him. She 
 fancied that he bent his face lower than was needed to 
 examinine a miniature of Queen Elizabeth which lay there- 
 " Master Eliot told me of the splendid courage of that 
 lady when he was beset by robbers. Perchance she may
 
 Lady Janes Confession 219 
 
 have longed for some such display on the part of her 
 chosen knight." 
 
 This was cruel. Was it not to please her that he had 
 remained at Trebursey ? If he had failed his love in 
 knightly endeavour, sure she was not the one to cast 
 blame on him ! 
 
 He straightened himself, and his blue eyes flashed as 
 he replied : 
 
 " Shall I lie, lady, for complaisance' sake ? or will 
 you force my lips to utter the truth, and allow you to 
 pass sentence on my fault ? " 
 
 " If fault there were, Master Granville, 'twere well that 
 a wiser judge should decide the matter." But she would 
 not meet his eyes. 
 
 " John Eliot, I remember, spoke highly of your ladyship's 
 wisdom, may I not trust it thus far ? I perceive you take 
 in the truth I shame to utter." 
 
 " Master Granville, you shall have more truth than you 
 bargained for." And now she faced him squarely. " I 
 know not how to take you. Just now you were a courtier 
 framing compliments, as unmeaning and silly as the rest ; 
 then you were a very boy, blushing at your faults. And 
 now " — she dropped her eyes before his inquiring gaze. 
 '' And now — now you face me, as I am not wont to be 
 faced by any, as if you would rule and sway nie to your 
 mind and will. I tell you plainly — Yes, I know you stayed 
 for me, to pleasure mc, to ride with me. Your arm longed 
 to grasji mc, did it not ? I quailed ix'forc your ardour, 
 did I not ? Well-nigh broke down my fence, did you not ? 
 Yes, sir, yes, I grant it. It was true — true, to my shame, 
 if shame there were — for I knew but little then of your 
 life. I know more now. More of you — more of her 
 whom you most honour. I offer you not now a sentence, 
 but a confession, and — and my friendship and help.''
 
 220 Sir Bevill 
 
 She had come step by step as she spoke nearer to Bevil, 
 and was now by his side ; her hand moved out to him 
 and he raised it to his Hps ; as he released it she laid either 
 hand on his shoulders and kissed his cheek. " We are 
 comrades now, Master Bevill. One thing I see writ large 
 in thy face, friend, and that is the great word loyalty. 
 Which of us has never swerved for a moment ? Few 
 honest enough to confess it ! And now I have a secret 
 for thee, and a scheme." 
 
 " Nay, Lady Jane, but I hate schemes, even from one 
 so fair " 
 
 " Stop, Master Granville, I will have none of that." 
 
 " Not even the truth ? " 
 
 " Not even that truth. Listen to me. Thy father is 
 set upon a match betwixt thee and me and has written 
 the same to my father — which, to say the least, I deem to 
 be not squarely honest towards another — and in his letter 
 he speaks disparagingly of Sir George Smith, as one who 
 heeds not his Majesty's wisdom, forsooth. Now I gather 
 that he has disconcerted the mind of thy fair Grace, and 
 that she and her father left Stowe somewhat displeased 
 both with Sir Bernarde and thee." 
 
 " That is likely enough." 
 
 " Thy giant liked not thy stay at Trebursey. Master 
 Coryton, of Newton Ferrers, is in town, and with him a 
 small varlet named Tite, who came here on an errand to 
 my father, and told my tirewoman a fine tale about that 
 same giant." 
 
 " Faith, Anthony's tongue is wont to wag more than 
 prudence suggests. My father will send him up to me 
 anon, but he begged hard to stay at present. He is mazed 
 about that maid at Coombe, his sweetheart ; fearing 
 that her old grandmother may be injured." 
 
 " Yes. Tite reported that there were enemies whom
 
 Lady Janes Confessio7i 221 
 
 she feared ; one especially — a friend of thy brother Richard 
 — whom, the little man boasted, he had assisted the giant 
 to rob, or something vastly like it, under pain of being 
 pursued for murdering old Mistress Poll — something." 
 
 " Poor old Zippora Polsuth — yes, she died of the treat- 
 ment she received when they put her in the water. 'Twas 
 a cruel shame. His Majesty's foolish book hath much 
 to answer for. I marvel that all his knowledge, and it is 
 not small, doth not breed in him better sense." 
 
 " 'Tis a marvel. But we have drifted from our subject. 
 What with thy man's report that it was thy ride with me 
 that hindered thy return. Mistress Grace's heart hath been 
 made sore. This is a matter which concerns thee deeply ; 
 and also me, as I hold myself to blame. I blush to remem- 
 ber that, when first I heard that thou hadst a hking for 
 a cousin, ' a country wench,' I said to myself, and — well, 
 it was a paltry thought — need I say more ? Then after 
 thy departure, dear John Eliot, in his half-sad, touching 
 way, told me of a visit he once had to Exeter, and of his 
 night walk with thy Grace. I felt myself but a small 
 woman compared to her, in her steadfast courage and 
 gentle goodness. Yes, you may smile, but I went to my 
 chamber and fairly cried over his tale. He meant it to 
 touch my heart, I know well, and I was not at a loss to 
 know the reason " 
 
 " Who is there like him ?" broke in licviil. " I know 
 of none so furnished in mind, so true and gentle of heart. 
 When I think of him there comes to my mind that word 
 of St. Paul : ' Peradventure for a good man some would 
 even dare to die.' He is such that, for him, one would 
 even dare." 
 
 Bcvill could not resist a searching look at Lady Jane's 
 face as he spoke. Were they not just suited the one to 
 the other ? Lady Jane caught and read the look, and
 
 222 Sir Bevill 
 
 answered, in her own fearless way, the thoughts she 
 read. 
 
 " Yes, Bevill, I could have loved him ; ah, I love him 
 now dearly, but not, as men say, with a lover's love. He 
 was plighted to his Rhadagund before I knew him. And 
 when I knew him he had a fancy to teach me, and I to 
 learn of him. He taught me the value of life, and its 
 meaning. He made me feel the powers of the world to 
 come. So my love for him grew great, but ever mingled 
 with a kind of awe that has but little earthly in it. I can 
 hardly explain, but perhaps you who love him so well will 
 understand me. I feel to him that gentle loving gratitude 
 that a penitent feels to a confessor, is it not so ? " 
 
 " I think. Lady Jane, that you have made it very clear 
 to me, though my own feelings, which jump with thine^ 
 may not be cast quite in the same mould. We were boys 
 together." 
 
 " He will not live to be an old man. His greatness will 
 wear him out if nought else kills him, and I shall die young 
 and a maid. You need not stare, I know it as surely as 
 if I read the book of fate. And somehow it gives me 
 happiness of a kind to know it. All is so fleeting here, 
 and much now so dark, so very dark." 
 
 A strange look was in her eyes now as if she saw 
 beyond the outside world, the fair lawn with its stately 
 trees, and beyond, the white drifting clouds that crossed 
 the azure. The spell was broken by the entrance of Lord 
 Exmoor. 
 
 " Delamere has been with me, Jane. Ah ! Granville, 
 you are most welcome. I trust Jane has supplied her 
 mother's place in entertaining you. My lady has been 
 called away to see a sick friend, but returns to dine. You 
 will stay and meet her. A quaint fellow is that same 
 herald. He was sober to-day for a wonder. Not that he
 
 Lady Jane s Confession 2.2.'^ 
 
 is ever drunk, but ever in liquor. What a brain he hath ! 
 He makes me giddy to try to follow him. To-day he 
 came for an old manuscript of ours, to help him work out 
 a point in a pedigree for a friend. Why, bless my heart, 
 if it was not thine, Master Granville. 'Tis an old copy 
 of ' Matthew of Westminster' that he would look at, and 
 that ancient ' Neustria Pia,' which thy grandfather prized 
 so highly, Jane. He said, ' That Richard baffles me,' and 
 he used a bad word. He doth swear very freely, and I 
 like it not ; but he said, * Granville, Graynville, why 
 Hamon's son ? ' And I said, ' What hath Hamon, cousin 
 of Robert the Devil, to do with Granville ? ' ' Just what 
 I want the Devil to tell me,' quoth he. ' Why the Devil ? ' 
 said I. ' No good asking the saints about Robert's kith 
 and kin,' said he. There was something in that. ' Had 
 Hamon of the teeth two sons or three ? ' said he. ' What 
 matter,' I said, * if he had thirty.' ' All on white asses,' 
 quoth he, ' but I only want one a.ss, an' if I find that ass 
 then Bevill Granville is cousin seventeen or eighteen times 
 removed from his most sacred Majesty.' ' Hardly worth 
 fmding for that,' said I. But perchance I ought not to 
 have spoken the word." And the good Earl laughed a 
 quiet chuckling laugh of his own as he continued : " He 
 remarked, Master Granville, that not many families could 
 show, like thine, a succession of sixteen generations from 
 father to son. This Granville, he said, had a share in 
 FitzHamon's conquest of Wales, and gave all he then 
 obtained to God, l)uilfling anfl endowing therewith a house 
 for Cistercian monks at Neath. Is that so ? " 
 
 " I believe that is the trtitli," replied Hcvill, " but who 
 that Richard Granville was, whether FitzHamon's brother 
 or no, I know not. It sccmeth to me of little account. 
 Doubtless he was a good man and a blessing rested on his 
 progeny. I pray God his good deeds have not yet
 
 224 ^i^ Bevill 
 
 exhausted the tree, but that it still can bear fruit for God 
 and our good land of England." 
 
 The Lady Exmoor, who entered, was very gracious to 
 Bevill and begged him to use Exmoor House as it were his 
 home, a request which he found no difficulty in acceding 
 to. 
 
 In writing soon after to his father by favour of William 
 Coryton who was returning, and purposed to visit Stowe, 
 he requested that Anthony Payne might be sent to him, 
 and informed his father of Lord Exmoor's kind hospitality, 
 saying that he found in him and his lady, as well as in their 
 daughter, friends much to his Uking. 
 
 When the giant reached town he handed his master the 
 following letter : 
 
 " Bevill, — You write to me to understand my liking 
 of your affection to my Lord Exmoor's daughter. She 
 is of greate bearthe that I mutch aproove her person 
 . . . and . . . your judgement. ... I have hearde y*' 
 the noble Lord hath sayed he had rather marry his 
 daughter to a Jcntlcman of a good famyley y* hath a 
 comptente estate to mayntayne him than to a greate 
 Lorde. ... I like well yor choyse, a meaner hearth then 
 yours hath obtayned greater honor. Assure yourself ther 
 shall bee nothing omitted of my part. . . . My chafest 
 desire is to see your prosperytey in all goodness. I pray 
 God to bless you. 
 
 " So I rest your loving father, 
 
 " Bn. Grenville. 
 
 " At Keligarth y 6th. of August 1614."
 
 CHAPTER HI 
 
 MISTRESS GRACE BLAMES HERSELF 
 
 LAD Y JANE kept her scheme to herself. Perhaps in strict 
 truth it was more an idea than a scheme. With her, as 
 with not a few of rapid thought, ideas that seemed for 
 the moment feasible, when put to the test of repetition to 
 others failed to convince even herself. A resolve she had, to 
 bring together Grace and her lover; but how to effect it was 
 by no means clear, as his father was doing his best to counter- 
 act her intentions. As the days wore on Bevill was more and 
 more in her company, and it was small wonder that her 
 friends generally looked upon him as the one fortunate 
 swain that had found a place in her heart. Thus the news 
 drifted westward, losing nothing by the way, and Sir 
 George felt himself justified in concluding that Bevill had 
 transferred his affection from his daughter, and asserted the 
 same to his wife and Grace. 
 
 On the principle that nothing gains so much in value as 
 that which, once deemed our own. has suddenly bi-conie 
 the property of another, Mistress Grace took the defection 
 of Bevill very sorely to heart. H had been almost a source 
 of dread with her that her feelings towards her lover were 
 weak in comparison with his devotion to her person. Now 
 a change set in. An accusation of perfidy was gathering 
 strength, intensifying her feelings towards him. Honest 
 enough to sift her own mind and heart, she founrl it small 
 comfort to suspect tb,it her want of reciprocity might have 
 
 1'
 
 226 Sir Bevill 
 
 had something to do with the loss of her lover. Conse- 
 quently, her heart's appreciation of him grew and increased 
 In spite of the plea set up against him by her intelligence. 
 Her mind told her that he had been untrue to himself as 
 well as to her. His nature was a simple and steadfast one, 
 not lacking in culture or intellect, but singularly straight- 
 forward, and gifted with a strength of determination 
 unsuspected by many who only perceived the gentleness 
 of his character. Of this determination she had had more 
 than one striking proof in early days, and had been inclined 
 to resent it when displayed in opposition to her wishes. 
 All this seemed to her to make his change the more un- 
 accountable. She argued, therefore, with herself that the 
 attraction to which he had been submitted must have been 
 in proportion strong. Anthony Payne's description of Lady 
 Jane did not satisfy her, and she could not forbear when she 
 reached Exeter seeking out Mary Tremayne and obtaining 
 from her a more exact description of her rival in Bevill' s 
 affections. Mistress Tremayne had seen her at Court, 
 described her as the most striking and lovely person there, 
 admired and sought after by all, but yielding favours to 
 none ; holding herself with a pride of bearing and a calm 
 intellectual scorn of commonplace worship and compliment 
 that made her at once the centre of attraction and the 
 despair of the gilded youth at James's Court, the best of 
 whom would turn from that beautiful devil (Rochester's 
 paramour and wife) to a chaster shrine that stood un- 
 scathed and unsullied amid the orgies of Whitehall. 
 
 Such, then, was her rival. Small wonder if Bevill had 
 yielded to so fair an enchantress ! He, of all others, 
 however high placed and noble, to be chosen as the knight 
 of such an one ! Her Bevill, the country lad, to be held 
 worthier than all the great ones, not only of James's Court, 
 the foulness of which was little known to her, but even of
 
 Mist ye ss Grace blames Herself 227 
 
 those who had surrounded the Great Queen ! As she 
 thought this over, hstening to Mary Tremayne in her 
 parlour that sultry August afternoon, her heart grew chill 
 within her in spite of the heat. She looked up in Mary's 
 face with such a sad, wistful look as she murmured, " Master 
 Bevnll is in London," that Mary grasped the situation at 
 once. 
 
 " Oh, Grace ! Dear, sweet Grace, have you indeed 
 cause for sadness ? Hath this fair and noble lady come 
 betwixt you and your love ? Sure, 'twas said that she 
 would wed none, but die, like the Queen she almost wor- 
 shipped, unyoked to any man. She is called proud as 
 Lucifer, and as learned as her late friend and cousin the 
 Lady Arabella Stuart. Besides, she is of the blood royal, 
 and must have the King's consent, and that will not be 
 easily given. There is too much money and land with 
 her for King James to let it go from one of his Scottish 
 following. I cannot give credit to your fear." 
 
 " Be she as they say she is, and fair as painted by thy 
 words, Mary, she will not be lightly turned from her 
 purpose, nor he forego his hold." 
 
 " But, Grace, dear, is he not bound to thcc ? Ho is not 
 one to go back from his word, or I misread his face." 
 
 " Nay, Mary, we have never been betrothed. He has 
 made no secret of his love for me, nor I of mine, but there 
 have been no vows, nor any permission sought of parents. 
 In good truth, we have been too much like brother and 
 sister — and — and I almost think that to me he was rather 
 more brother-like than lover, while I perchance have erred, 
 in that I have been too sisterly in my feelings towards him. 
 And this is the sequel." 
 
 She paused and nestled up to her friend, sliding her 
 arm round Mary's waist and leaning her head upon her 
 shoulder.
 
 228 Sir Bevill 
 
 " Oh, Mary," she whispered between her sobs, " 1 am 
 very miserable, and it doth so hurt my heart. Would 
 that I had not been so distant ! Would that I had not 
 estranged him from me ! But 'tis all too late now — too 
 late ! "
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 MASTER DELAMERE DIVULGES A SECRET 
 
 AT Wells the barber's house in the Strand Bevill spent 
 many an hour with the quaint, dissipated herald, 
 whose conversation, if at times somewhat ribald, was 
 often exceedingly witty and full of information concerning 
 men and matters little known by the world at large. At this 
 time the Earl of Somerset was at the height of power 
 and influence, for the star of Villiers had not yet appeared 
 above the horizon. As Lord Chamberlain and Privy Seal 
 he exercised unbounded control, and, with the aid of his 
 abandoned wife, sold offices to the highest bidders without 
 scruple or hindrance. Over all these doings Delamere 
 kept a watchful eye, and made his usual mental note. 
 
 " Canst keep a secret, Master Granville ? There is 
 death in the pot, as the young prophet remarked ; and 
 marry, sir, there was death in that pot that I wot of." 
 
 " What mean these dark hints, man ?" inquired Bevill. 
 " Keep a secret ? Of course I can. I expect you want 
 me to help you to keep one which is burning your tongue." 
 
 " Thou saycst it, young man. It doth burn my tongue, 
 as it burnt his, though not in like corporal manner, so to 
 Sf)eak." 
 
 " Well, what is the riddle, sir ? I am all attention." 
 
 " Thou has heard of Ovcrbury, Sir Thomas of that ilk ? " 
 
 " Yes, he died in the Tower." 
 
 " He died, as your worship truly saith, anrl in the Tower. 
 \U\{ how ? nnd why '■" Wrll, well, well, wv all know thai
 
 230 Sir Bevill 
 
 he was poisoned. But people don't all know that which I 
 made myself sure of to-day. Namely, that that murder 
 was the work of one she-fiend, who goes by the name of 
 Countess of Somerset, late Lady Rochester ; no, I err, 
 he was created Earl of Somerset to be sufficiently noble 
 to espouse the high and mighty Frances Howard, Countess 
 of Essex, daughter of the Earl of Suffolk. Of course, we 
 all know how she offered Sir John Wood £100 to spit him, 
 then tried to banish him, and, when he would not go, 
 sent him to the Tower. Well, there he died, as your 
 worship remarked. Now this morning I happened to 
 come across the one bit of evidence that I wanted to 
 make sure that she not only suggested the poison but 
 bought it herself. Yes, I have got it." And he chuckled 
 long in a semi-grave and incoherent manner. 
 
 " Dost mean to retain an advocate on the subject, or 
 get the Lord Chancellor to issue his warrant ? " inquired 
 Bevill. 
 
 " Neither the one nor the other, most excellent lad. 
 The Master of us all is reported, some say untruly re- 
 ported, to have suggested to a certain assembly that if 
 one of them could be found guiltless of the breaking of 
 the seventh commandment he might begin to stone a 
 certain woman. On that principle, I fear I should fail to 
 find men to stone the Countess in these days, certainly in 
 his Majesty's Court. No. I make it my occupation at 
 times to discover hidden deeds of darkness, but I don't 
 care to bring them to light, I just remember them. That 
 is all. Therefore, fair sir, I moralise on these things. 
 I wonder, had Overbury access to this very accessible 
 lady ? or did she attempt his virtue and find herself 
 repelled ? Not that he was immaculate. Oh, no, far 
 from it ; but perchance it would not have been safe, and 
 he was wise. Then sprelce injuria forma caused her to
 
 Master Delamere Dividges a Secret 231 
 
 determine his death. I may be wrong ; that is my theory. 
 Well, lad, it is dangerous work playing fast and loose with 
 female fancies. Do it not, my son, there is danger. Now I 
 notice thy evident affection for the beauteous icicle in 
 Exmoor House. Item : a bird sang me a little song one 
 day — a tiny bird it was — that down in the depths of Devon 
 — how quaint and pretty that sounds ! — down in the depths 
 of dear, dull, dainty Devon . Ha 1 ha 1 " 
 
 " Well, what of Devon, man ? " 
 
 " Well, this of Devon, man," mocked the herald. " The 
 birds of Devon be dainty. Yea, very gracious birds there 
 be down along there, with pretty feathers ; sweet grey 
 doves murmur ' Coo, coo, coo, co ' in the fir-trees there, 
 and silly swains think they are talking to them, throwing 
 pretty words to them. Ha ! ha ! down in Devon." 
 
 " When you have done talking nonsense, and laughing 
 at it, perhaps you will be good enough to explain what 
 you are croaking about," quoth Bevill, in high ill-humour. 
 
 " Softly, young man, softly. I never croak. Ravens 
 and frogs croak. I only coo, Uke they do in the fir-trees 
 in Devon." 
 
 " You are pleased to display what, 1 presume, you con- 
 sider your wit to-day." 
 
 " Presumption ! young man, yes — I am not sure that 
 that is not the right word. You presume that I consider 
 my talk witty. Yes, sir, I do consider it witty, if wit 
 meaneth wisdom, and to-day I am in a wise humour, as 
 beseemeth a man of my parts when he hatli not drunk 
 more sack and canary than a moderate seafaring man. 
 To-day, sir, being sober, I am not only moral, but have a 
 desire to inculcate morality. Dear Master Granville," and 
 the little man strode solemnly across to where Bevill sat, 
 put his hand gently on his shoulder, and, looking him in 
 the face with a kinrllv smile- that at onro disarmed his
 
 232 Sir Bevill 
 
 rising anger, said : " Never mind the bird — I happen to 
 know that there is a sorrowful heart somewhere in Devon 
 that thou, and thou only, canst soothe. Perchance thou 
 canst not ; perchance she, that is cold to all else beside, 
 here in London, is not cold to thee ; perchance thou canst 
 not resist the irresistible. I know not. I am no magician, 
 I only use my eyes and ears, and that which enters either 
 remains with me ever. Art angry with me now, lad ? " 
 
 " Why didst begin with that story of the Countess of 
 Somerset ? " 
 
 " Why ? Well, it was running in my head from some- 
 tliing I heard to-day, but I care not a hair of the devil's 
 tail whether she is hanged or no, richly as the de- 
 serves it. It only set me thinking of the jealousy of dis- 
 appointed women in general. Either if they be wicked 
 they grow vengeful, or if they be good they grow sad. 
 There, friend, if that offends thee, go shake off my dust 
 and say : ' 'Tis but a low varlet ; what can a gypsy's son 
 know of the feelings of a gentleman with eighteen quarter- 
 ings ! ' " 
 
 " Nay, friend, forgive me if thy parables were too deep 
 for me ! Thou art right, and thou art wrong. As thou 
 knowest so much, and art careful for me, to help me, I 
 will tell thee more. The Lady Jane and I are friends, 
 not lovers, and she is as true as thou art, to help away the 
 badness of her of whom thou hast heard — I know not how — 
 in Devon. I thank thee heartily, but time and patience 
 must avail to bring things straight." 
 
 They parted the best of friends. But Master Delamere 
 shook his head at least six times with great solemnity, 
 poured a pint of sack down his throat, and muttered to 
 himself : " Gad, if he has been able to thaw that most 
 lovely icicle, he must have in him the warmth of a tun of 
 sack."
 
 Master Delaniere Divulges a Secret 233 
 
 At the street door Bevill met Master Wells the barber. 
 
 " Dost know, Master Wells, where one can purchase 
 good armour ? I heard my father inquiring not long 
 since." 
 
 " Faith, sir, good armour is scarce ; good anything is 
 scarce nowadays. Is there any news in the town, good 
 sir ? People will talk, sir ; they say the Lord Chancellor 
 should be forced to prosecute those that murdered — yes, 
 murdered — Sir Thomas Overbury. But great folks shield 
 the wicked nowadays. Why, sir ? I ask, why ? Yes, 
 sir, yes. Armour, did you say ? Yes, I have a brother 
 who has many pieces ; some very fine — scherrions and 
 gorgets, and head-pieces any number. Prithee tell thy 
 good father, or I will have some here to show your worship. 
 The great Minister was here but yesterday sennight. Proud 
 as a peacock, damn him. God forgive me — and him, too, if 
 he shields the wicked. Give you good day, worthy sir. I 
 will mind the scherrions by the next time your worship 
 
 comes in."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED AT THE MASQUE 
 
 BEVILL spent Christmas partly at Stowe and partly at 
 Kelligarth. Lady Day was past, and the New Year, 
 1616 according to the old reckoning, was ushered in by 
 storm without as well as by stress in the world political before 
 he was again back in London. Villiers had purchased the 
 office of Cup-bearer to the King. Howard, Earl of North- 
 ampton, was dead and succeeded in his office of Chamberlain 
 by the Earl of Somerset. Vilhers was the coming favourite, 
 and already Somerset's influence and greatness were on the 
 wane. In the street, men talked openly of the murder of 
 Overbury, and wondered impatiently how long it would be 
 before the murderess would be brought to trial. No longer 
 was the accusation against Somerset and his wife confined 
 to hints. 
 
 The private affairs also of Bevill were sufficient to chill 
 his heart. Grace would not see him nor reply to a letter 
 of his which he sent by a messenger from Bideford. Sir 
 Bernarde, moreover, had annoyed him by words which he 
 had spoken about Grace and her father in connection with 
 the death of Zippora Polsuth. Consequently their inter- 
 course had been somewhat restricted, and Bevill had 
 avoided the subject of Lady Jane Exe. 
 
 The dust of the London streets whirled madly down 
 the Strand in his face as he rode up to his old lodgings at 
 Vreine's, gave his horse to Anthony, and went in to rest
 
 What Happened at the Masque 235 
 
 and discharge himself of the dust of the journey. It was 
 but four o'clock in the afternoon ; he was hungry, and as 
 soon as he had changed his attire he sought the tavern to 
 dine. He had scarce finished his meal when Anthony 
 entered. As he was tending his horses a varlet of Lord 
 Exmoor had come in to inquire after Master Granville, 
 and to know when he was expected in town. Anthony 
 dehvered his message rather abruptly, and was leaving 
 the room when Bevill called him back to inquire who had 
 sent the messenger. " The ladies had sent him," replied 
 Tony, and being pressed whether it was the Lady Exmoor 
 or her daughter, he was obliged to say that it was the 
 latter. 
 
 Bidding Anthony get some refreshment as quickly as 
 possible in the kitchen, and then come to him at his lodging, 
 he waited there for his servant to accompany him to St. 
 James's. Here he found Lady Jane in a state of some 
 excitement. The King was coming up to London imme- 
 diately after Easter, and — which was far more important — 
 Sir George and Lady Smith, with their daughter, were in 
 London. Sir George had come up on important business 
 connected with the " ever-faithful " City, and it was hoped 
 that Grace, who was said to be in delicate health, would be 
 diverted by the sights of town and the honour of being 
 presented at Court. By some strange error on Sir George's 
 part, or in ignorance of her character, the notorious Countess 
 of Somerset had been requested, and had assented, to take 
 Grace in her charge. Lady Jane told Bevill that her mother 
 was horrified at the idea of a country girl like Grace being 
 brought in contact with such a woman. 
 
 " I know not what to think, Bevill. I have never seen 
 her, but through you and John Eliot I seem to know hrr 
 like a sister. I feel sure that both hrr talents and her 
 purity ^^i" preserve her from evil, but F drrad thnt woman.
 
 236 Sir B evil I 
 
 She is so clever, so witty, so utterly unscrupulous, that she 
 will do anything, sacrifice any one for her own interests. 
 And she is tottering to her fall. Already it is an open secret 
 that she herself purchased the poison which ended poor 
 Overbury's life, nay, Master Delamere will tell you the 
 names of all the chemists, barbers, and witches that were 
 employed by her." 
 
 " Yes, I know he was searching into this matter last 
 autumn, but I thought he purposed to keep it a close 
 secret." 
 
 " So he does when he is sober, but he grows very reckless 
 now at times. His life and habits must tend to sap the 
 constancy of his mind. But the danger is serious, my 
 friend. There is a great masque forward. I like not the 
 idea that your Grace should go to Court under the care 
 of this woman, and be taken by her to the masque. For 
 certain the Countess herself will be involved in some 
 conspiracy of mischief, and will be all the more reckless, 
 as she knows that her fate is trembling even now in the 
 balance." 
 
 It is true that in Shakespeare's time women did not 
 take part in any play in public, but these masques were 
 often performed by ladies and gentlemen in private houses 
 on great occasions. The coming Court masque was a 
 subject of general talk ; the arrangements and movable 
 scenery were under the direction of Master Inigo Jones, 
 the great architect ; with him was associated Master 
 Delamere, whose skill in the dresses, ornaments, and 
 dancing was unrivalled. Composed expressly for the 
 occasion by the poet Campion, framed on the same plan as 
 his famous masque " The Night and the Hours," the masque 
 was arranged for the Queen, who took especial delight in 
 such displays. But there were also other interests con- 
 cerned. The Lady Somerset was well aware of the im-
 
 What Happened at the Masque 2.2n 
 
 pending danger that hung over her, and had used all her 
 influence with the King to obtain a free hand in this matter, 
 to promote not only her own private amusement and 
 schemes, but also to show her enemies that she still stood 
 high in the royal favour. Campion's masque was to be 
 known by the name of '^Neptune and Virginia," and was 
 entitled : "A New and Magnificent Court Mask, represent- 
 ing Neptune's Empire subdued by England's Virgin 
 Queen, who plants her Standard triumphantly on the 
 Shores of America and claims the Continent as her own." 
 The Countess had the courage herself to represent the 
 Maiden Queen, and as one of her ladies she secured, 
 among others, the assistance of Grace Smith, who, charmed 
 at first by her wit and beauty, at once took for granted 
 that any story which was told her against the lady's fame 
 was a base fabrication, begotten of jealousy. After many 
 weeks of preparation the day arrived for the show. The 
 scenery was as perfect as the art of the age could make it. 
 A glassy sea surrounded the dark temple of Neptune, 
 
 " At whose command the waves obey ; 
 To whom the rivers tribute pay, 
 Down the high mountains shding ; 
 To whom the scaly nation yields 
 Homage for the crystal fields 
 
 Wherein they dwell. 
 And every sca-Rod pays a Rcm, 
 Yearly out of his wat'ry cell 
 To deck Great Neptune's diadem." 
 
 Opposite was the bower of Virginia, a marble palace 
 festooned with roses and the rarest plants, brought over 
 from France with great care, and at enormous cost ; no 
 money was spared, and an imjioverishcd nation saw 
 thousands squandered on the amusement of a single 
 night. 
 
 Neptune was grandly represented, anti .mioiig his
 
 238 Sir B evil I 
 
 followers, clad in garments covered with seaweed and 
 shells, many of them sparkling with jewels, towered 
 the giant form of Anthony Payne, bidden there by Dela- 
 mere's special request. 
 
 " Tony, man, I have but one work for thee," said the 
 herald in his ear. " Keep thine eyes on Mistress Grace, 
 and let no evil come anigh her this day." 
 
 The whole pageant moved to perfection, the speeches, 
 full of wit, praised up to the skies the glory of England. 
 The flattery was gross. The Maiden Queen had forsaken 
 her native land to reign in spirit for ever in Virginia, but 
 had left it in such glorious hands that even Virginia owned 
 herself a vassal State to that great Monarch who, on his 
 mighty, all-compelling throne, was fit to rule the world. 
 The King listened, dehghted. The Queen was in her 
 element. The most of her ladies were engaged in the 
 masque. She herself was never so happy. The songs 
 and dialogues over, Master Delamere, in quaintest attire, 
 as Neptune's Cup-bearer led out Virginia herself in the 
 stately measure of the dance ; and the masque closed 
 with a thrilling chorus. 
 
 Grace kept in the background as much as possible. The 
 Countess had done her best to attach her to herself, but 
 the pure-minded country maiden found her first impres- 
 sions weakened on closer acquaintance, and could not help 
 feeling a strange and growing sense of repulsion at the 
 very look of this unchaste beauty. At the rehearsals, too, 
 the unrestrained licence of many of the masquers filled her 
 with disgust. The compliments of Lord Somerset were 
 ill-disguised insults to her ears, and one noble Lord especially 
 annoyed her with his incessant attentions. He was a man 
 in the prime of life, married, and of sufficient fame as a man 
 of intellect and somewhat of a musician to give his opinion 
 on the music and the " motions " of the dances.
 
 What Happened at the Masque i^f^ 
 
 In the beauty of the scene, the charm of the music, and 
 the perfect and fascinating rhythm of the dances, Grace 
 thought of nothing beyond the glory of the masque. But 
 when the last chorus had been sung and the curtain fell, 
 all the performers hurried away to prepare for the evening 
 supper and dance that was to follow in the palace. 
 
 Lady Jane at the last moment had volunteered to 
 supply the place of a girl, a friend of hers, who had been 
 too unwell that morning to join the chorus of the masque. 
 She did not know Grace Smith by sight, but had a strong 
 suspicion as to her identity from the movements of Anthony 
 Payne, who, she observed, constantly had his eyes on one 
 shght, fair girl whose face attracted her marvellously, not 
 so much from its intrinsic beauty as from the sweetness 
 and innocence of its expression. Passing behind the stage, 
 up a flight of stairs, and into a long corridor, the actors 
 dispersed into various rooms. Jane saw Grace in front of 
 her, walking by the Countess of Somerset, who was talking 
 eagerly with her and evidently greatly pleased with the 
 success of the masque, which had been loudly applauded, 
 especially by the King. Somerset himself was just behind, 
 and with him the nobleman who had been most attentive 
 to Grace. 
 
 Somerset had his hand on the man's shoulder, and, as 
 they passed a door opening into a passage, gave him a 
 slight shove forwards ; at the same time the Countess 
 turned to her husband. The man went on towards Grace, 
 and Lady Somerset said, " You will find your tirewoman 
 in that passage, Mistress Smith." Lady Jane stood still ; 
 «he knew the man and she knew more of the ways of 
 Whitehall than Grace. Lord and Lady Somerset went on 
 laughing loudly. Jane heard him say, " My Lord Edward 
 is up to mischief ; I lay a wager he gets his face scratched 
 by that country girl." She looked round, and behind her
 
 240 Sir B evil I 
 
 saw Anthony Payne at the further end of the corridor. 
 She beckoned to him, and he came to her rather in a 
 hesitating way, looking again and again behind him. They 
 were alone now in the corridor. 
 
 " Keep close to me, Anthony, I much fear that Mistress 
 Smith hath lost her way in these passages. I saw her but 
 now turn this way. I prithee keep near me till I find her. 
 There arc one or two in this place that mean no good to a 
 young maiden." 
 
 They went along the passage to the end, but could not 
 see nor hear any one. Sounds of laughter came from some 
 distant part, but in front all was still, and they turned 
 back. 
 
 Meanwhile, as Grace left the corridor, she looked over 
 her shoulder and recognised the man who had caused 
 her no little annoyance on a previous day. She therefore 
 quickened her pace at once, and being light and swift of 
 foot was some way down the passage before Lord Edward 
 was aware that she was trying to escape him. He was 
 well acquainted with the palace, of which she was evidently 
 ignorant. Grace gained the door at the end, opened it, 
 shut it behind her, and found herself in a large, half- 
 furnished room without light except from the moon, for 
 the windows were uncurtained and the shutters reached 
 but half-way up them. Turning quickly to one side she 
 stood in the shadow behind and close to a large cabinet, 
 and leaned back against the tapestry with which the wall 
 was covered ; to her surprise, this yielded to her pressure, 
 and in a moment, stooping down, she passed under the 
 tapestry to find herself in an alcove, probably leading to a 
 private stair, but it was too dark to perceive any door. 
 Standing upright, she discovered to her astonishment two 
 small holes in the work through which she could look into 
 the room. She saw the door open very quietly and the
 
 What Happened at the Masque 241 
 
 figure of Lord Edward appear. He looked round quickly, 
 and turned in the opposite direction. No sooner had he 
 done so than he heard the sound of a footstep. He dashed 
 towards it and found himself face to face with an exceeding 
 small man dressed in green velvet, puffed out amazingly 
 at the sleeves and knees. The dwarf had no sword, but 
 carried in his hand a leather strap with a ball, also of 
 leather, at the end of it. He seemed no wavs abashed at 
 the sight of the noble, but going towards him hissed out 
 the words in a shrill whisper : 
 
 " What dost here, thief ?" 
 
 " Get out of this, imp," said Lord Edward in a low but 
 threatening voice, " or I'll spit thee like a woodcock." 
 
 " Like a what ? What ? " whispered the httle man. 
 "Get out yerself. I'm eatin' my supper in quiet." 
 
 "Go," quoth the noble Lord, poking at him with his 
 light Court sword. "Go, or I'll make you only fit for a 
 black pudding." 
 
 " Go, indeed, quotha ! " said the imp, putting his left 
 hand out to protect himself. Then throwing himself on 
 that hand as if to execute a somersault he raised his 
 feet in the air and struck out so sharply with his heel that, 
 taking the noble on the wrist, he caused him to drop his 
 sword, either from the pain of llie l)luw or astonishment 
 at so strange an assault. 
 
 Grace lf)iigcfl to be able to reach llx' door ;nid escape, 
 but they had moved so as to be now completely between 
 her and it ; in breathless fear she awaited the result. 
 
 The dwarf had seized the sword and thrown it along the 
 floor under a large table in the centre of the room, and, 
 rising to his feet, whirled the strap round his head and 
 brought it down right in the face of his antagonist, almost 
 blindinp him. 
 
 " I'll teach thee manners," said Titc, loi it was he. 
 
 Q
 
 242 Sir Bevill 
 
 And again the ball was swung in his lordship's face, and a 
 loud oath in response re-echoed through the empty room. 
 Grace started from the arras and gained the door, flung it 
 open and found herself literally in the arms of Lady Jane. 
 Behind her towered the giant of Stowe. The strange 
 battle came to a sudden end as the light through the open 
 door fell on the combatants. 
 
 " Take me away, lady. Take me away, for God's sake," 
 whispered Grace, trembling like a leaf in a gale of wind. 
 " That dreadful man chased me here." 
 
 " Yii here, Varmint?" grinned Anthony. " Vightin', 
 as usual. Caan't thee vind a vittier plaace than the palace 
 uv the King fer thy encounters ? " 
 
 " These yer thickhead come an' 'sturbed me as I wer' a- 
 takin' my supper quietly, and I told he to goo, an' a wudden, 
 an' I wer a-maken 'un." 
 
 The noble lord had gone to pick up his sword, and was 
 now almost invisible in the shadow. So Lady Jane deemed 
 it best to carry off Grace at once, and bidding Tony tell his 
 little friend to come, they left the room as quickly as 
 possible. 
 
 " You are Mistress Smith, I know ; I was with you in 
 the masque ; come with me and you will be safe. I saw 
 that man follow you in this passage, and as I know him I 
 came to warn you not to trust him." 
 
 Grace had almost regained her courage by this time, and 
 pressed Lady Jane's arm, clinging to her like a child. 
 
 " I was frightened," she whispered. " I praise God that 
 you came. This place is so strange to me, and so wicked." 
 " Mistress," said Anthony, coming up, " I shiid take it 
 as a favor ef I might goo back an' bring that chap here an' 
 shake 'un a bit, just to tache 'un not to come interferin' 
 again." 
 
 " No, Anthony, please to keep with me."
 
 PVliat Happened at the Masque 243 
 
 "He is Master Granville's man, so of course you know 
 him well. I am Jane Exe ; perhaps Master Granville told 
 you that we met at Trebursey." 
 
 Grace almost withdrew her hand, but she was faint and 
 giddy, and the dread of the last quarter of an hour was on 
 her still. 
 
 " Yes, they told me at Stowe that he was with you," 
 she said faintly. " I saw you in the masque and wondered 
 who you could be. You looked at me so often and so 
 kindly." 
 
 " Why should I not look kindly at one so sweet as you, 
 fair Mistress Grace ? How many times have I not heard 
 Master Bevill sing thy praises ! He is a dear friend of 
 mine, so I made sure to love thee the moment I saw thee. 
 Shall we leave together ? I need not wait for my father. 
 Anthony will fetch us a coach and I can see thee home." 
 
 They had reached the dressing-rooms, by this time 
 nearly deserted by the masquers. Finding there the women 
 who awaited them, they were driven to Sir George's lodg- 
 ings, and then Lady Jane left her new-found friend in a 
 state of some wonderment and, in spite of all her previous 
 feelings of resentment, more than willing to receive Lady 
 Jane when she promised to call the next day. Her mother 
 had not felt well enough to go with her to the masque, 
 bift was at home to soothe her daughter and listen to all 
 the dangers and marvels she had to tell.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 LADY JANE VISITS MISTRESS GRACE 
 
 BEVILL, although invited, had not attended the Court 
 masque for the very good reason that he could not 
 leave his room. He had slipped and fallen coming up 
 from the river byaside street to the Strand, onlytwo evenings 
 previously, and had strained his ankle somewhat severely. 
 Having received from Anthony a full account of the events 
 which took place after the masque, he was anxious to know 
 how matters stood between the two ladies. Great was his 
 indignation at the danger to which Grace had been exposed, 
 and he had made up his mind to call Lord Edward to 
 account for his behaviour. He was saved the trouble, 
 however, by the abrupt departure from London of the 
 noble lord, who had no mind to be laughed at for his defeat 
 by the green dwarf ; for Tite had boasted openly of his 
 victory, which he described to an admiring circle of varlets 
 the same evening in this wise : 
 
 " The gashly fiilc coined into the chamber wher' me an* 
 my maid were having our supper on the quiet. Ye see 
 I'd left my master liikin' on at the rubbish, an' we went off 
 to get a bellyful. Her knawed the way of the place, 
 being kitchen wench, and we was ferry comfrable,w'en this 
 blockhead comcd rinnin' in arter Mistress Grace. My 
 maid stepped behind a curtain, but I went to 'un, kecked 
 'un on the head, an' just drove 'un out wi' tii black eyes. 
 I ded, siire's my name's Titc. He wer' in a pretty pore." 
 
 Meanwhile, Lady Jane had made up her mind to do her
 
 Lady June Visits Mistress Grace 245 
 
 best to set Grace's heart at rest. She, with her mother, 
 called on Lady Smith the next day, and was very cordially 
 received, but Grace did not appear. In vain she waited 
 for her entrance, and at last learned that Grace was not 
 Well enough to leave her bed. Making an excuse to go 
 out to her carriage for her fan, she sent a message by 
 Grace's woman, whom she found on the stairs, begging 
 to be allowed to see her if only for a minute. She was 
 shown to her chamber after a short delay, and found Grace 
 in bed with a racking headache. It was nervous work 
 for them both, neither having any personal knowledge of 
 the other. Lady Jane thought it the vdsest plan to plunge 
 at once into the very heart of the question. 
 
 " Forgive me, mistress ; if I seem to treat you too 
 forwardly, but I have gathered some knowledge about your 
 affairs and I ask your kind permission to waive ceremony 
 and speak to you, as one sister should to another. Have 
 I your permission ? " 
 
 " Surely," replied Grace, " after the evident proof that 
 your ladyship gave me last night of your goodness, it were 
 both ill-becoming in me and churlish to refuse to hear 
 anything that you wish to tell me. I am, as you see, at 
 your mercy, but I feel sure that your ladyship will deal 
 mercifully with me." 
 
 " Not only mercifully, dear lady, but lovingly, if I may, 
 and as a sister should. First let me tell you what I know, 
 and after, what I wislu And you shall sec by my candour 
 that my only desire is to place myseH at your service. 
 To speak without reserve, I know that although you are not 
 betrothed to Master Granville yet that a great and strong 
 attachment exists between you. Have I your permission 
 to state this as a fact ? " 
 
 Grace assented by a movement of her head. 
 
 " I know also," continued Jane, " that you sent a
 
 246 Sir Bevill 
 
 message to him at Trebursey desiring him to return, and 
 assist at preventing mischief being done to some one in 
 whom you were interested ; also that his faihire to return 
 has somewhat injured him in your estimation." 
 
 " That is certainly the case," replied Grace, " and it 
 seemed strange to me, for Bevill has ever been a man fore- 
 most to defend any who were weak and in danger. Nor 
 has he hitherto refused any request of mine that he could 
 possibly accede to." Grace flushed as she said this, and 
 looked Jane straight in the face. It was clearly a challenge 
 to the other to say that the influence which had hitherto 
 been strong enough to draw him to her will had failed 
 now, and failed because of an influence more potent than 
 her own. 
 
 Lady Jane understood and accepted the situation. 
 
 " I think, dear lady" — and she spoke slowly, as weighing 
 her words — " I think that Master Granville is not to be 
 greatly, if at all, blamed in this matter. He had come 
 to Trebursey to see his friend, Master Eliot, and make the 
 acquaintance of his lady. Of this he had little oppor- 
 tunity owing to the storm, which had proved too great 
 for the strength of Master Eliot. So that he lost the 
 pleasure of their company, both in the house and riding 
 on the moor, which greatly disappointed him and me also. 
 For I am greatly attached to Master EHot. Also, he 
 believed that by sending back Anthony Payne he had put 
 the matter into safe hands. These rea.^ons may not seem 
 sufficient, and perhaps they were not. Must I add one 
 more ? " She put out her hand and passed it lightly over 
 Grace's forehead as if to soothe her pain. Grace shut her 
 eyes and smiled. The cool hand was balm to her hot 
 brow. She murmured : 
 
 " I think I know the one more without words, Lady 
 Jane. He could not look on 5'our face and faiK^to be
 
 Lady Jane Plsits Mistress Grace 247 
 
 drawn to it — nay, do not interrupt me. I am not a jealous 
 woman, and if Bevill loved you, and it were better for him, 
 I would not stand in his way. I think I love him too well 
 for that, but I was told — I am sure wrongly now — and I 
 believed it, that your ladyship was but playing with the 
 heart of a country lad, and that when you had won it you 
 would leave it merely as another trophy of your power — 
 let me finish, I pray you — I do not believe that now ; I 
 have seen courage and truth as well as kindness in your 
 face, and I trust you. May I not ? " 
 
 " I think you may trust me." 
 
 " And you did win somewhat of his heart ? " 
 
 " Only a little morsel, and for just three minutes." 
 
 " Out riding on the moor ? " 
 
 " Yes, out riding, I did — but — it cost me dear. Child, 
 it cost me a bit of myhfe," and Lady Jane hid her face for a 
 moment on the bed. Then raising up and looking Grace in 
 the eyes she continued : 
 
 " No man ever came so near winning my heart's love as 
 thy lover. There, I have told you. But it was only for a 
 moment, and it i;red in us both — I am sure for myself, ayo, 
 and for him, too — it bred nothing but a great strong friend- 
 ship. He is so noble and so true that if for one short moment 
 he was taken by another face than tliino, dear maid, did 
 he not merely jirove that he was mortal ? " 
 
 " And," said Grace, " that thou art fair." 
 
 She looked up and smiled. 
 
 " And then, one more thing I must tell you," said Jane. 
 " His father has interested himself with mine in this matter, 
 and has asked for my hand for his son. But, dear child, I 
 have refused him. That is to say, I have told my fatlier 
 that I shall not marry. Anyhow, my whole desire now is 
 to move thee to allow Master Bevill to come back to thy 
 feet and resume his rightful place in thy dear, innocent
 
 248 Sir Bevill 
 
 heart. Now kiss me, child, and let me go and seek my 
 mother, who will wonder at my delay." 
 
 Left to herself, Grace could hardly realise all the change, 
 the revulsion of feeling, that these words of Jane meant to 
 her. Had her head been free from pain she could have 
 sorted her ideas, she fancied, so as to take in the full meaning 
 of all that had been told her. For a few moments she made 
 the attempt ; then gave it uj) and resigned herself to enjoy 
 the relief won by a relaxation of strain. 
 
 With next morning, however, as she reviewed the past 
 with a clearer brain, the comfort of it seemed, if not 
 altogether to vanish, yet to be considerably qualified by 
 several considerations. 
 
 First of all, the matchless beauty of the Lady Jane had 
 come upon her as a surprise, and not only the beauty but the 
 tender winningness of manner and voice of the woman 
 which lent a two-fold charm to her beauty. Beyond this, 
 again, there was a strength of reserve in her, speaking of a 
 power over others at once rare and hard to resist. Was 
 she to believe that all these charms had, as it were, been 
 spread out for his acceptance, and, in spite of his father's 
 persuasion and the evident favour of the lady herself, 
 had been rejected after a moment's hesitation by Master 
 Granville ? 
 
 In the next place, however true it had soundd yesterday, 
 was she to believe implicitly in the word of a woman who 
 had confessed her love and yet offered to forego the spoils ? 
 Was it not open to Bevill, bound as he was by no contract, 
 to accede at once to his father's wish and the impulse of his 
 own heart ? And yet once more, was it not greatly to the 
 advantage of one destined to a public career to be allied 
 to a family so noble as that of the Earl of Exmoor, related 
 as he was to the throne itself ? All these reasons seemed to 
 her to make it impossible that Bevill should have declined
 
 Lady Jane Visits Mistress Grace 249 
 
 advantages so great. Again, and yet again, she weighed 
 the words of Lady Jane, and doubting her own powers of 
 penetration determined to lay the whole before her mother, 
 who had been ever more like a sister than a parent in her 
 intercourse with her daughter. Her mother urged her to 
 withhold her hand, and leave it to Bevill to make a further 
 advance. He had certainly failed her badly, and she 
 could not say that the excuse of another's beauty and charm 
 was sufficient to absolve hira for breaking faith with one so 
 bound to him as was Grace. 
 
 They were engaged in discussing this when Lord Exmoor 
 was announced. He came to see Sir George on a matter of 
 business, he explained, and had taken the liberty to bring 
 with him and introduce his friend, Mr. Delamere, who, 
 having had a large share in the preparation and carrying 
 out of the masque, was distressed to hear of Mistress 
 Grace's indisposition ; he had been vastly entertained 
 by the description given by Master Gran\ille's giant of 
 the noble lord's defeat at the hands, or rather, he might 
 say, at the feet of the dwarf. He i)rofessed that he would 
 have sacrificed a year of his life to have seen the little man 
 standing on his head to kick the offensive nobleman out of 
 his way, and bastinadoing him with a leathern strap. 
 He laughed till he cried at the thouglit. Lord Edward 
 had fled the country — to the " Loze^ Countries," he opined — 
 and hoped it would be long before he returned. He was 
 interested, too, in Sir George's pedigree. He was thankful 
 that the knight spelt his name willi an " i" and not with 
 a " y," not a ha'p'orth of authority for the " y." Who 
 ever heard of a blacksmith or a whitesmith spelt with a 
 " y" ? He believed Sir George to be the head of a great 
 clan. Why did people mix up the sjielling of their names ! 
 There was that donkey Sir Thomas ThjTino who professed to 
 bedescendedfrom Johnde Botville, of thejlnn — why " y " ?
 
 250 Sir Bevill 
 
 No one ever heard of the Ynncs of Court, nor does Will 
 Shakespeare write of taking ease at an Ynne. The Welsh 
 had more cause to spell the common name of Jones with an 
 "a" — "Joanes" — for it came from the Greek Foannes, 
 but they stuck to plain Jones like a sensible people. But 
 the world was full of fools ! Only a few wise men left, 
 including himself and present friends, and his dear friend 
 Bevill Granville, who was confined to his chamber by a 
 strained foot ; the rarest gentleman he had met for many 
 a year — and so he prattled on. " The King himself was 
 greatly distressed," he said, " at Master Granville's accident, 
 which had hindered his presence at Court the last evening, 
 and had sent a messenger this morning to inquire after the 
 health of the man whose father had mustered a thousand 
 men and drilled them on his lawn for the defence of Cornwall 
 in Queen Elizabeth's days." So saying, he took his de- 
 parture, leaving Lord Exmoor closeted with Sir George, 
 discussing political business affecting the West of England. 
 
 Again and again that day Grace was destined to hear the 
 praises of her lover sung. Will Coryton called and asked 
 for Mistress Grace's account of his dwarf's prowess. He, 
 too, lamented the accident to Bevill, and had much to say 
 of his many virtues ; with him came Thomas Drake, who 
 was loud in the praises of their friend. Nor was this all, 
 for in the evening John Eliot called to inquire after Mistress 
 Grace, hoping that she had recovered from the annoyance 
 caused her by an infamous nobleman. From him she 
 heard nothing but praise of Bevill, telling her how he had 
 won all their hearts at Trebursey. 
 
 Now, the breakage of the proverbial pitcher does not, 
 after all, depend upon the number of visits it pays to 
 the well, but to the stupidity or carelessness of the one 
 particular person who trips in going or returning. But 
 John Eliot was neither careless nor stupid, yet as^he
 
 Lady Jane Visits Mistress Grace 251 
 
 returned once and again to the merits of his friend, it seemed 
 to Mistress Grace's mind that there must be some cause for 
 all their many tributes of adulation which were being 
 poured upon Bevill, and there arose the question : " Why 
 did he need so much assistance ; sure he was well able to 
 plead his own cause without." — Yet she hardly liked to 
 finish the sentence, and accuse him of setting on his friends 
 to proffer their aid to his suit. What if it were a fact that 
 he had done his best, as his father had directed him, to 
 gain the wealthier, nobler lady for his wife, and, faihng 
 utterly, had then with the aid of John Eliot obtained her 
 help to make his peace with one whose fewer charms, 
 and smaller dowry, had of old sufficed ? She crimsoned at 
 the thought, and there passed through her mind something 
 very like a stem resolve to live and die unwed, since men 
 were so little to be trusted, and alas ! as she had but 
 lately learned, often so utterly base. Pondering on this 
 she sat apart, after Eliot had left, till her father entered 
 the room. 
 
 There was trouble on the good knight's brow, and, 
 seeing his daughter, he began at once to unburden his 
 mind. 
 
 " I am far from sorry that the breach halli widened 
 betwixt thee and the son of that man at Stowc. I desire 
 not the further acquaintance of the father, and though the 
 son be well enough, he is a chip of the same block." 
 
 " What hath angered thee, father, with Sir Bcrnarde ? 
 He was wont to be our very good friend." 
 
 " He hath writ me a letter, child, for which I have little 
 stomach. He is dealing scurvily with my friend Prideaux, 
 and hath not a good word to say for him ; because, forsooth, 
 Prideaux hath spoken of a claim that he hath on the 
 Bevill estate at Kelligarth. Hatli heard that Sir Bernarde's 
 lady is at Kelligarth and like to die .? I am marvellous
 
 252 Sir Bevill 
 
 sorry for her ladyship's ilhiess. She hath ever been a good 
 friend, and a peaceable, Godfearing woman," 
 
 " No, father, I have heard nothing of her illness of late. 
 All the talk that has come to me to-day hath been of her 
 son Bevill's virtues. I wonder that he abides in London 
 since his mother is so indisposed." 
 
 At that moment a servant entered with a letter for 
 Grace. 
 
 It was a hasty and short scrawl from Bevill, in which 
 he craved permission to see her. 
 
 After reading it Grace handed it to her father with a 
 look that sought an answer from his face as he perused the 
 document. 
 
 That he was little pleased with it she saw at once, 
 but was hardly prepared for the emphatic words which 
 followed the letter as he returned it to her. 
 
 " No, Grace ; by no means do I desire you to renew 
 your former footing. I shall give no sanction whatever 
 to an alliance with Bernarde Granville's son. He hath a 
 mean sense either of justice or kindness, and I would fain 
 have no dealing with him." 
 
 Thus it came about that Bevill received a curt note of 
 refusal, and in the early morning he took his way by Exeter 
 to Kelligarth in much pain both of body and heart. His 
 mother was very ill when he arrived, her health was com- 
 pletely broken, and she never recovered, though she 
 lingered on for several years. After spending many days 
 with her he left for Stowe, Sir Bernarde remaining at Kelli- 
 garth with his wife. His relations with his son were 
 somewhat strained. Bevill, much to his father's annoy- 
 ance, took the same view Sir George Smith had done 
 about the Bevill property and Mr. Prideaux's claim, and 
 Sir Bernarde could ill conceal his displeasure.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE LEGALISED MURDER OF NOBLE RALEIGH 
 
 LIKE many another, greater perhaps in the world's eye 
 but never a purer, braver soul, " in quietness and in 
 confidence " Bevill Granville found that strength 
 which in future years braced his heart and nerved his arm 
 to meet the storms of England's days of peril and distress. 
 Alone with his sister at Stowe, he spent his time partly 
 in active work, but chiefly, whether in work or study, in 
 trying to face problems which the wisest heads in the 
 land acknowledged but failed to solve. 
 
 •At Stowe, with his sister Gertrude and her cousin, a 
 lady of middle age, Bevill had abundant leisure for useful 
 work. And here he laid the foundation of that popularity 
 which enabled him, at no very distant date, to command 
 the confidence and the suffrages of his fellow Cornishmen. 
 He had a decided turn for mechanics, and in several ex- 
 peditions which lie made to the mining districts of Cornwall 
 he was struck with the great waste that went on in smelting 
 the ore from the mines. He determined at once to institute 
 e.\ppriments both ns to fu<l and the blast. The miners 
 had hitherto clung to the idea that wood was the only fuel 
 thnt would melt tin, and this material not being abimdant 
 in Cornwall increased the expense of the smelters to a 
 considerable extent. He determined to try whether coal 
 would give equally good results. He set up at liis own 
 cost experimental works and proved Ili<' triitli of his 
 theories. Also, i)y inereasing the draught in tht- blast,
 
 254 Sir Bevill 
 
 he prevented waste of the metal and was fortunate enough 
 to be able to persuade others to follow his plans. By 
 these means he soon gained an exceedingly popular name, 
 for he never considered it right to withhold from the public 
 any discovery that he was able to make. It may seem a 
 little thing for a man to have suggested to his fellows merely 
 a change of fuel in the exercise of their craft ; but it speaks 
 loudly for the character and ability of a youth of some 
 twenty summers that the discoveries of an amateur were 
 accepted by the craftsmen of his day. His generosity also 
 in communicating — as we are told he did — every useful 
 discovery to others for the general good, explains a phrase 
 which in after days was used by one not much given to the 
 laudation of others. " His affections," said Clarendon of 
 him, " were so publick." 
 
 Time passed quickly in useful pursuits ; autumn grew 
 into winter, and winter into spring ; and if thoughts of 
 Grace's sweet face and gentle wisdom tempted him now 
 and then to an excess of self-reproach at his failure in loyalty 
 to her, yet he never despaired of, at some future day, regain- 
 ing the place he had forfeited in her estimation. And in 
 this he received no httle encouragement from two letters 
 which reached him from the Lady Jane. In the first 
 she had described the eagerness with which Grace had 
 received her assurance of her lover's steadfast affection, 
 and the look of satisfied, happy repose which came over 
 her features in spite of present pain. In the other she 
 had said but little of Grace, and that little only from 
 second hand, but it assured him that no one else had won 
 any mark of favour from her. Master John Eliot had been 
 in communication with Sir George and from him had 
 gathered as much as this. Lady Jane told him of the fall 
 of Somerset, his and his evil wife's condemnation to death, 
 and their narrow escape from the extreme penalty. Others
 
 Legalised Murder of Noble Raleigh 255 
 
 had gone to the scaffold for Overbury's murder, she said, 
 but the instigators of the crime had escaped with their 
 lives to finish them in shame, poverty, and disgrace. 
 Villiers was now the favourite at Court and John Eliot 
 was like to rise to a place of importance. He had found an 
 old companion and one ready to be his friend in the new 
 favourite, and would doubtless receive honours due to his 
 great merits before long. 
 
 Nor was Lady Jane mistaken, for early in 1618 John 
 Eliot received knighthood, followed shortly by the Vice- 
 Admiralty of Devon, under Villiers, now Marquis of 
 Buckingham and Lord High Admiral of England. 
 
 But before these events took place Bevill had again 
 sought his old quarters in the Strand. The Christmas of 
 1617 was past, and once more in early spring Bevill rode 
 into London. Eliot welcomed him with joy, and told 
 him of his hopes and plans for the future, and again urged 
 his friend to do all in his power to insure his return to the 
 next Parliament. In May John Eliot became Sir John, 
 and thus part of old Zippora's prophecy was fulfilled. 
 Together the friends stood side by side in Palace Yard 
 on that miserable Octolxr day, to watch in bitter grief 
 the legalised murder of one of the finest and noblest gentle- 
 men that had graced the Court of the. Great Queen. 
 "Matchless was his fortitude," wrote Eliot of Sir Walter 
 Raleigh, " such was his unmoved courage and placid 
 temper that while it changed the affections of his enemies 
 who had come to witness it, and turned their joy to 
 sorrow, it filled all men else with admiration and emotion, 
 leaving with them only this doubt — whether death were 
 more acceptable to liim or he more welcome unto 
 death." 
 
 " Didst hear him ? " whispered EHot to liis friend. 
 " He said when they bade him move iiis head on the
 
 256 Sir Bevill 
 
 block, ' What matter how the head He so the heart be 
 right.' Ah ! " 
 
 " It is over, and ill done," said Bevill. " God rest my 
 cousin's soul. He was very dear to the mighty dead. Sir 
 Richard and he were brothers in arms by sea and land." 
 
 " Yes," replied Eliot, " with all his errors England has 
 hardly seen a nobler soul and never a finer courage. One 
 marvels to think of the genius and enterprise of those 
 great men who surrounded the late Queen. She did not 
 choose a man for the fairness of his skin or the colour of 
 his eyes, her men were heroes. A Carr or a Villiers would 
 have had scant praise from her. Not that I would say a 
 disparaging word of my Lord of Buckingham ; he hath a 
 pleasant wit and will doubtless fulfil well the duties of 
 his high office, but when troubles arise — as arise they will — 
 we shall need men like Howard of Effingham, Richard 
 Granville and Walter Raleigh. God only knows what 
 to-morrow will bring forth, but there is much that is dark, 
 and the highest in this land seem to fail in foreseeing 
 dangers and ability to counteract them."
 
 PART IV 
 TREAGUE'S REVENGE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 HE PREPARES HIS PLANS 
 
 MATTERS, meanwhile, were not going quite smoothly 
 at Stowe. Richard, who was still at home, was 
 giving his father more trouble, and as usual 
 shifting his responsibility on to other shoulders. 
 
 He was now nearly twenty, and was clever enough to 
 ensure success in any profession that he chose to take up, 
 but he was vastly fond of mischief, and not particular 
 whether or no that mischief might lead to crime ; only, 
 as we have seen on a previous occasion, he was careful, 
 after he had laid the train, to have as little as possible to 
 do with the firing of the same. Finding Mr. Treague very 
 sore on the subject of the sousing in the river, and still 
 more annoyed with Anthony Payne for some further 
 proceeding, the nature of which he hinted at, but was 
 unwilling to disclose, for reasons well known to Anthony 
 and his friend smith Cardew, Richard did his best to ferret 
 out the matter. 
 
 " What didst do to the old fox ? " he asked of Cardew 
 one day as his horse was being shod. 
 
 " That, your honour, is a matter best bcknown to 
 Master Treague, l>ut which he hath not yet entrusted to 
 
 R
 
 258 Sir Bevill 
 
 the public in general. We giv'd him the best advice that 
 lay in our power." 
 
 " Oh, then there were several that paid him a visit," 
 said Richard. 
 
 " More or less, Master Richard, more or less." 
 
 And Dick could get no more, for the horse began to 
 fidget, and the smith to swear at him. 
 
 So time passed, but not the grievance from the mind of 
 Treague. He was standing on the wooden foot-bridge at 
 Coombe (nearly two years after the death of Zippora 
 Polsuth) talking to Richard about the sheep, when he 
 saw Anthony Payne and Lizzie Paschowe come together 
 out of Grannie Paschowe's house, walk up the lane towards 
 the bridge, and take the path that led to the seashore. 
 
 " Master Richard, ef swearin' were not against the 
 command of the Almighty, it would relieve my soul and 
 do my body good to curse them two. I would take it as a 
 favour if your honour would be so kind as to damn them 
 for me." 
 
 " Can't say, Master Treague, that I quite see what good 
 I should get by cursing your enemies. It strikes me that 
 sinning by proxy is a poor occupation." 
 
 " So your honour did not seem to think when you set 
 us all on to drown the v^tch, and left us to bear the blame." 
 
 " Not so, Master Treague, not so at all. All the blame 
 was laid on my own shoulders, innocent as you well know 
 
 I was." 
 
 " Innocent, you innocent ! I'll be damned if you 
 
 were." 
 
 " Don't swear, Zacky, it's wrong, and unbecoming in an 
 elder ! " laughed Richard. 
 
 " Yu wouldn't laugh if yu'd been robbed of your hard- 
 earned gains by that big ruffian thief." 
 
 " Oh, he robbed you, did he ? Ah, I see now, he and
 
 Treague Prepares His Plans 259 
 
 smith Cardew, and perchance another, made you pay 
 for that day's amusement. Damme, I didn't think the 
 big rascal had the wit in his great ugly head." 
 
 " Not he, Master Richard, 'twas a small devil as he'd 
 picked up and brought 'long wi' 'un ! Shudn't wonder if it 
 were old Dame Polsuth's famihar." 
 
 " Ha, ha, Tite the Varmint, I'll be sworn. So they got 
 your money, did they ? and then made you swear secrecy. 
 By gad, that was a sharp trick. I say, Master Treague, 
 why don't you pay him out for it ? " 
 
 " Wish I could, I'd pay that fast enough. I may as well 
 tell your honour, forty pounds of my good money those 
 scoundrels robbed from me by vi'lence that day in gold 
 and silver — from me, Master Rhichar', jrom me, a man of 
 Gord, a saved saint of the Almighty. Oh, it burns my 
 bones to think of it. May Gord blight them all, body and 
 soul ! " 
 
 " What's the good of cursing, Treague ? why don't you 
 act ? They stole your money, you say, why not take 
 something he cares for ? Was not that big rogue that 
 goes along yonder the chief of them ? What does he care 
 for most } Look at them, man. He've got his arm round 
 her, hasn't he ? Look at her, the d — d little vixen, grinning 
 up in his face. He starts off for London to-morrow to take 
 letters to Master Bcvill. She will be left alone, with no 
 one to take care of her, poor Httle thing. Can't you, who 
 are so kind and loving and amiable, look after little Liz, 
 Zack ? You might take her for a jaunt to Plymouth or 
 Exeter, just to show the clear little soul ;i bit of tlic world, 
 not to say the flesh and the devil. Eh, Master Treague ? 
 Eh, Zack, you poor cheated hound I Eh, what, take your 
 money and leave you nothing for your pains ! Here comes 
 my respected father riding down from Cleave. I'll wish 
 you good-day. You need not tell him you've seen me;"
 
 26o Sir Bevill 
 
 and Richard stepped quickly over the bridge and passed 
 into the path leading through the woods to Stow. His 
 father, however, had seen him, and could not help marvel- 
 ling why he should have slipped away so quickly. 
 
 Master Zachariah Treague pondered long and deeply 
 over Dick's words and suggestions. " ' Why don't you 
 take something he cares for ? ' Ah ! of course, he meant 
 take her. 'Tis easier said than done." Treague knew 
 the people of Coombe : several were related to the Pas- 
 chowes. The girl herself, and her grandmother, were well 
 esteemed ; her father, too, would be an awkward man to 
 offend. Above all, there was Anthony Payne who would 
 crush the life out of any one who hurt his girl. Still, it 
 was a matter to be considered. 
 
 Sir Bernard called out to him as he rode up : " What ho. 
 Master Treague, hast seen my man Payne down this way ? 
 I need him." 
 
 " Master Payne, your honour, hath but now walked by ; 
 almost, I may say, bearing in his arms some wanton young 
 woman. It would ill become me to take away the character 
 of any maid. I but say what I see. If sinners entice thee, 
 saith the Scripture, consent thou not. Noo ! " And he 
 wagged his long beard with great solemnity. 
 
 " Maybe, it was the young woman whose company 
 Anthony keeps." 
 
 " I know not the daughters of the land, your worship, 
 and I like not their ways, their ungordly ways. Daughters 
 of Satan be they, leading souls to hell. I come not anigh 
 their habitation. Noo, Gord forbid." 
 
 Sir Bernard rode on ; he could not stomach this overdone 
 piety. 
 
 Treague stood where he was ; two dishwashers dabbled 
 in the river almost close to him ; a shore lark came up 
 the stream, hunting flies on every stone, and joined the
 
 Treague Prepares His Plans 261 
 
 dishwashers ; they flew up and circled together in the 
 sun, then aHghted again and ran swiftly along the edge 
 of the shallow, trying to vie with the shore lark in his 
 activity, and failing ; he caught two flies to their one. 
 Treague watched them and wondered : " How did he do 
 it ? Why so far quicker than the others ? " He supposed 
 it was because, though not so pretty, he had more brains 
 than the little graceful grey wagtails. "Brains! that's 
 just what does it ! Have not I brains ? why can't I 
 pick up fhes ? If I could only get that girl to Plymouth ! " 
 And then an awful thought entered his evil brain : " When 
 I was tired of her, I could easily ship her off in some boat 
 going to Ireland. And why not put it on Payne ? Say 
 he had taken her to London. — He could only deny it. — 
 But how to get her away ? " 
 
 So he turned back up the hill, thinking and planning 
 evil as he went. 
 
 Zachariah Treague walked slowly up the steep hillside 
 that autumn afternoon, winding his way zigzag along 
 the narrow path fringed on either side with bracken, 
 brown-gold now in its first decay ; mingled with it was 
 gorse, stunted and wind-swept, a flower showing here and 
 there, all trellised with a little red-brown creeper that 
 covered the gorse with its network, binding all so firmly 
 together that the small rabbits jumj)cd up and sat, nodding 
 to one another, each from his little bush throne ; purple 
 and white heather and wild thyme made the air fragrant. 
 But none of these were heeded by Treague. He started 
 back, indeed, as an adder with her hood slid along the 
 path in front of him, turning her head and hissing as she 
 went. On his right the wide Atlantic muttered, drifting 
 back the pebbles from tiie beach three hundred feet below. 
 He heard the hoarse croak of a raven, as the bird rose 
 slowly from close beside the path where lay the carcase
 
 262 Sir Bevill 
 
 of a lamb, a late and weakly child of a great flock. As the 
 man drew near, another bird came in view, a heavy carrion 
 crow, that could scarce move for repletion, yet loth to 
 forsake a delicate morsel attached to the carcase by a shred 
 of wool. Catching sight of Treague, the foul bird released 
 his hold for a moment, and it was seized at once by a 
 magpie looking on. This was more than the crow could 
 bear, and he turned savagely on the interloper. The 
 magpie was too quick to be caught, and would have 
 carried off the prize but that the wool was obstinate and 
 brought the pie to his back. With claw and beak he 
 received the onslaught of the crow — then, finding his 
 antagonist too heavy for his powers, slipped aside and 
 fled down wind with insulting cries. Treague threw a 
 stone at the crow and went on, half frightened, half angry. 
 " The place is alive with devils," he muttered to himself. 
 " I believe the old witch haunts this hill." Then he 
 set to plotting again how to ruin Lizzie Paschowe. If he 
 could only get her into his power. But the way seemed 
 not so easy. 
 
 " I might make friends with the old woman, only it 
 costs money to give presents, and I have none to spare — I 
 mean none that I intend to spare ! Or I might get her 
 kidnapped by some gypsies, only they are such dishonest 
 rascals, they would take my good money, and tell the 
 Paschowes all about it ! No, I must work it by myself, 
 if I am to be safe." But for many a day the way did 
 not seem clear, 
 
 Christmas came, and with it a stroke of luck such as 
 the devil often sends his friends. One morning after a 
 night of snow, Treague, going round to see to the safety 
 of his sheep, found a small black cow under a bank on the 
 land adjoining the cliff ; the poor little brute was half 
 buried in snow, and was in a piteous state. Searching
 
 Treague Prepares His Plans 263 
 
 about, he found a dead calf half frozen close by the mother. 
 The cow was a frame of skin and bone, and had evidently 
 wandered far, and had probably been brought over from 
 Ireland to Padstow or some place on the coast, and being 
 as active as a deer had escaped. Treague took the calf 
 by the legs and dragged it along the snow, the mother 
 following, " helving," as they called it, plaintively. Gain- 
 ing his yard, a brilliant idea struck him. He did not 
 want a cow, it was of no great value, Irish cattle were 
 little esteemed, he had no mind to run the risk of being 
 accused ot theft — why not give it away ? If it turned 
 out well, and was quiet to milk, Mrs. Paschowe would be 
 grateful for it, and if the owner came round she would 
 have to bear the odium. Yes ; he would give it to Mrs. 
 Peischowe. 
 
 So down went the little black cow next day in charge of 
 a man and a boy with his, Zachariah Treague's, compli- 
 ments to the widow, and his hopes that she would accept 
 his Christmas gift. Now Lizzie was up at Stow when the 
 cow arrived, and the widow's son Gilbert Paschowe was in 
 the cottage with his mother. 
 
 " I don't like to take it from that man. Shall I, or 
 shan't I ? " 
 
 " Well, mother, a cow's a cow, an' if so be as old Zack's 
 comin' to a better mind, 'twould be un-Christianlike to 
 hinder 'un. Keep 'un and say thank you, 'tis better to be 
 frens than foes." 
 
 So the little black cow was kept, but Liz said : 
 
 " Drat the man, and drat the cow. I'd lievcr see the 
 back of both of 'em than the face." 
 
 But, of course, after this Zack had a right to stop her 
 on her way to the mill next week and inquire how the 
 cow was getting on, and how much milk she gave, and was 
 she as good for butter as folks said these Irish cows were ?
 
 264 Sir Bevill 
 
 And what could Lizzie do but reply with civiUty ? She 
 was coldly civil, it is true, but she was civil. Zachariah 
 looked at her with evil desire in his heart. She was good 
 to look at, he began to think ; her colour was bright, her 
 lips were red, her dainty figure in a clean white apron 
 made an inviting picture ; and the proud look of half 
 suppressed scorn in her eyes and raised eyebrows only 
 made him long the more to humble her in the dust. 
 
 " Master Granville spends his time greatly in London, 
 it seems, mistress. 'Twas said that his man was returned 
 to him with letters not long since. They make nothing in 
 these days of a journey of two hundred and fifty miles. 
 'Tis wonderful, sure enough ! Praise the Lord ! Thou 
 hast never been in London, Mistress Elizabeth ? Noo ' 
 nor in any great city ? Noo ! 'Tis marvellous how folks 
 flock together. Where the carcass is, there will the eagles 
 be gathered. Thy granddam is well, I trust. Praise 
 the Lord ! Gord give you good e'en, mistress." So saying 
 he took himself off. 
 
 Lizzie felt somewhat sick at the sight of him, and the 
 sound of his voice ; but he seemed to have much business 
 now in Coombe, and was constantly buying corn for his 
 sheep, he said, so that she met him from time to time, 
 and got more used to his voice and pious expressions. 
 Ever harping on the same string, the size of great towns, 
 and the many interests contained in them, the houses, 
 the streets, the shipping, the great folk that lived in 
 Exeter and Plymouth, he tried his best to excite in her 
 a longing to see the wonders of which he spoke. But 
 Lizzie did not rise at his bait. A look of quiet wonder, 
 indeed, would cross her face ; but the wonder was caused 
 by her endeavours to discover the man's object in thus 
 addressing her. That he intended no good she felt certain. 
 
 Satan, we are taught to believe, is wont to find mischief
 
 Treagiie Prepares His Plans 265 
 
 for idle hands to do. Most idlers are able and willing to 
 provide themselves in this behalf ; but for certain the evil 
 one does not neglect the affairs of those who plot and plan 
 evil, and rarely misses the opportunity of providing it for 
 them. Grannie Paschowe and Lizzie were one day looking 
 over a box of clothes belonging to Zippora Polsuth when 
 they discovered a paper written over very closely. This 
 Lizzie, the scholar of the family, read aloud, with many 
 mistakes. Part of the paper was taken up with curious 
 prescriptions for charms and philtres, which the old dame 
 had collected, but at the end was a note which surprised 
 and interested her sister ; it ran thus : " Th choysest 
 treaysurs ar oft in sraalst compas to witt my locion for 
 sor eys, one dropp of wh. with water will cur anie." Then 
 came a description of a small trunk left behind in the 
 cottage near Exeter which contained this " treaysur," 
 amongst other things, and likewise thirty gold pieces. 
 On reading this the widow remembered that her sister 
 when dying had spoken of a trunk near Exeter, but her 
 thoughts had been called to another matter, and she died 
 without speaking of it again. Lizzie's father was called 
 in, and the latter part of the document read over to him. 
 They consulted long as to the chances of the trunk being 
 in the cottage where Zippora lived, and if there whether it 
 still remained intact. The man opined that, however useful 
 thirty pieces of gold might be, for certain they had never 
 been left untouched, that there was no date to the paper, 
 and that his aunt had probably spent it long ago. His 
 mother, on the contrary, maintained that her sister had 
 it on her mind at the last, and that few would care to 
 meddle with the goods of a supposed witch. The house, 
 too, Zippora had said, was, so far as she knew, unoccupied, 
 and she was a woman who had varied sources of informa- 
 tion. As her son was a very indifferent scholar it was
 
 266 Sir Bemll 
 
 settled by Mistress Paschowe that he should take Lizzie 
 with him to Exeter. 
 
 The journey was quickly arranged. Paschowe and his 
 daughter were to start from Coombe early on the Monday 
 morning following, she riding on a pillion behind her 
 father. They purposed to sleep at Hatherleigh at the 
 house of a relative, and hoped to reach Exeter the following 
 day. This was settled on Friday evening, and all Saturday 
 morning was spent in preparations. Lizzie's delight was 
 great ; she had heard more than once the story of Mistress 
 Grace's adventure near this very house to which they were 
 going. Tony had repeated to her the tale, with a few 
 additions of his own, setting forth the courage of Master 
 Eliot, who had, according to Anthony, put to flight at least 
 five stalwart robbers ; also the wonderful presence of 
 mind displayed by Mistress Grace, who had hurled stones 
 at two huge mastiff dogs and put them to flight when they 
 were springing upon Master Eliot. He told how Zippora 
 Polsuth had come out of her cottage and gone up to Master 
 Eliot and called him " Sir John," and afterwards accom- 
 panied him to the gate of Sir George Smith's house. So 
 that Lizzie seemed to know the very look of the lane and 
 the approach to Madford. 
 
 Unfortunately for her, little Lizzie was so elated with 
 the prospect that she could not keep the proposed journey, 
 as her grandmother bade her, entirely to herself. Poor 
 old Digory was sitting so lonely and sad on the beech-log 
 as she went by on Saturday afternoon that she could not 
 help sitting down by him just to try and cheer him up — 
 he was " so cruel lonely." 
 
 " What's that thy vather were carr'ing s'morning, Liz ? 
 simmy to me 'twere a pilHon ; who's he goin' ridin' off wi' ? 
 Not's wife, be it ? Her an' he'd be pretty much fer his 
 mare."
 
 Treague Prepares His Plans 267 
 
 " No, 'tain't for mother, 'tis for me, Dig, what do'e think 
 o' that ? I be goin' wi' 'un t' Exeter, but yu'm to tell no 
 one, 'tis a sacret, but father wants to find some things of 
 Auntie Zip's which she've left behind when she commed 
 away from Exeter. 'Tain't a great fortin, but I d'hope 'tis 
 wuth havin'." 
 
 " To be sure, to be sure. Lor', I've a bin t' Exeter " 
 
 " Hush ! here's father ; don't 'e tell no one what I've a 
 told you." 
 
 And Lizzie went off to fetch in the little black cow and 
 milk her. She had proved a rare little milch-cow, and the 
 butter from her cream was like gold. Indeed, the little 
 Kerry cow was famous in the hamlet, and had helped in a 
 wonderful measure to rehabilitate the damaged repute of 
 Master Treague in the e3'es of not a few. Consequently, on 
 Sunday afternoon, when Paschowe and his family had 
 trudged off to Morwenstow Church, Master Treague found 
 himself by no means scowled at by old Digory Bowman 
 when he came by, and wished the old man " Cord's speed " 
 in his most unctuous tone. 
 
 Zachariah sat himself down by the old man and produced 
 from a piece of paper a small lump of tobacco, twisted up 
 by a sailor into a ball. 
 
 " There, Digory, thou canst chew that at thy leisure. 
 Well, old friend, what's going on down here ? I hope 
 the young folks be kind to thee." 
 
 " Kind enow, Master Treague, an' thanky for the bacca. 
 Tes cruel little as I get on it, an' it's sweet wi' a smack o' the 
 tar, I d'sim. Aye, aye, the young folks be well enow, but 
 they be young, they be young, an' I be old, Master Treague." 
 " Where's Paschowe riding to-day with a woman behind 
 him ? not his wife, surely, her's brave and stout for a 
 pillion, an' Paschowe's mare is slightish. I seed him comin' 
 down from the smith's with a pillion."
 
 268 Sir Bevill 
 
 " Na, na, Carpenter ain't ridin' these day, 'tis to-morrer, 
 an' 'tis Liz, an' not her mother. They'm off t' Exeter 
 fer to vind old Zip's fortin as her left behind." 
 
 ZackTreague nearly jumped off the log ; but he smothered 
 the oath that rose to his lips with a cough. 
 
 " I've a kitched a terrible boost, old man, so I mustn't 
 sit here. The Lord shower blessin's on thee, old friend." 
 
 And away he strode. " The Lord hath delivered mine 
 enemy into mine hand. Shall I let her go ? Noo ! 'Tis 
 Gord's doin', an' 'tis marvellous in our eyes. I were to 
 have preached the Gorspel this afternoon up to Stratton, 
 but the Lord guided my feet thither, thank the Lord ! 
 I shall prosper now, and punish that rebellious hussy and 
 put her to shame. Shall I forbear because of the reproach 
 of the worldly ? What saith the Scripture : ' Unto every 
 man a damsel or two.' I will take one, and my reward 
 shall be in righteous vengeance on the big evil beast she 
 calls her lover. The man that cast me into the water, the 
 man that robbed me of my gold. Shall I not rob him of his 
 mistress and leave her for the scum of the city ? Yea, I will 
 execute righteous judgment upon them twain." So 
 blaspheming, he made his way across the down ; not now 
 did he disturb a raven. No carrion crow rose on heavy 
 wing, nor again did the adder hiss at him as he passed. 
 No sign warned him of the wrath of God. He reached his 
 home, to plan his infamy. Then preparing his saddle-bags 
 for a journey, he bridled his horse himself, for his man 
 was out, locked the door of his room and with a heavy 
 purse in his belt rode eastward, avoiding Kilkhampton, 
 and passing Thurdon Common, struck the road to Hather- 
 leigh. He crossed the river at Putford, and was soon on an 
 open moor covered with furze, out of which rose patches of 
 stunted oak ; pausing near one of these, he called to a man 
 who was lounging close by.
 
 Treagne Prepares His Plans 269 
 
 " What ho ! Ben, hast forgotten to come and drive those 
 sheep as I told thee at Kilkerton Fair ? " 
 
 " Eh, maister, I knows nowt about drivin' no sheep." 
 
 " Man aUve, wert so drunk as thou canst not remember 
 even that ? Well, well, I'd have paid thee well for driving 
 sheep, but I'll pay thee better for driving summat else." 
 
 •• Wot's that ? " 
 
 " How many hast here ? " 
 
 " None but my missus an' a lad." 
 
 " How long have 'e been here on the moor ? I remember 
 thee hadst three dark-looking bullies with thee at the Fair. 
 Where be they to ? " 
 
 " T'other side o' Hatherleigh. They camped there for a 
 bit 'cos Tom's got hissel' inter trubble. Made a mistake 
 at th' inn an' put on another chap's breeches an' went off wi' 
 
 em. 
 
 Treague bade the man he called Ben find his pals and 
 get them to meet him at a certain house in Exeter on the 
 Tuesday evening. He gave the man a gold piece, and 
 promised five to each if they would do his bidding ; arranged 
 a signal by which they should all know him, a pass-word in 
 fact, and then rode on to a village beyond Hatherleigh, in- 
 tending to reach Exeter on the Monday. Riding slowly on 
 the following day, he looked out for a place to suit his 
 purpose. They would be sure to take the road through 
 Hatherleigh and Okehampton ; of that he felt certain. 
 It was no difficult matter to find a desolate place, where 
 the road ran through a wood a few miles east of Okehampton 
 on the spurs of Dartmoor. He reckoned that Paschowe 
 would get through his business on the Wednesday and start 
 for home on Thursday, and that probably he would not 
 reach Okehampton till late in the afternoon. His men 
 would stop them there, tie up the father, blindfold him and 
 take what he had about him, while one of the party should
 
 270 Sir Bevill 
 
 carry off the girl, take her some way along the road towards 
 Exeter, where he would meet and rescue her, induce her 
 by persuasion or force to go with him to Exeter, where he 
 could keep her with him as long as he pleased. The plan 
 seemed feasible and, moreover, would cost him but little, 
 for his assistants would pay themselves from Master 
 Paschowe's pockets.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 TREAGUE CARRIES OUT HIS PLANS 
 
 IT was with no small feeling of pleasure that Bevill Gran- 
 ville received an invitation to accompany Lord Exmoor, 
 who, with his wife and daughter, were starting in a few 
 days for their Somersetshire house. John Eliot was to 
 follow them in a week's time, and had promised to stay 
 a few days at Pennycombe Castle among the Brendon 
 hills, which border Exmoor Forest. The early summer 
 rains had clothed the moorlandwith grass, while in thevalleys 
 the red Devon cattle were browsing knee-deep in the 
 luxuriant pastures. There was an air of peace around the 
 joyous home of the man who loved justice and truth, but 
 above all things to deserve and gain the love of God and 
 his fellow men. Here Bevill learned many a lesson as he 
 rode from one hill-farm to another with Lord Exmoor 
 and his daughter, and soon ceased to wonder that, however 
 unlettered the peasantry might be, they had here learned 
 one great object-lesson at least — that to gain the esteem 
 of one so worthy they must themselves think worthy 
 thoughts, and endeavour after a noble life. Anthony 
 Payne was with his master, and, riding with him through 
 Hampton to Tiverton some weeks after their arrival, met 
 Master Will Coryton's huntsman and Titc, then on their 
 way to Dulvcrton to look at a brace of young staghounds. 
 Tite took Tony aside and told him of a " proper ui)roar " 
 going on in Exeter. There was the hue and cry out for 
 some men who had robbed and nearly murdered a man
 
 272 Sir Bevill 
 
 called Paschowe on the road to Okehampton. The man 
 had found his way to Exeter with the help of a carrier, 
 and told how he had been set upon and robbed, and that 
 his daughter, who had been riding with him, had been 
 carried off. The man was mad with grief, and had appealed 
 to Sir George Smith for help. Anthony sat on his horse 
 like one stunned. " Could it be his Lizzie ? " Question 
 after question drew from Tite but little information. He 
 could only say that he understood the man to have come 
 from Cornwall, but had not seen him, for he was much 
 hurt, and the men were seeking his robbers a long way 
 the other side of Exeter. 
 
 Bevill soon learned the story, and proposed to ride at 
 once to Exeter, which was not more than twelve miles 
 distant. Telling Lord Exmoor that he hoped to return 
 next day, he and his man spurred with all haste to Exeter. 
 As they rode into the High Street, they came upon the 
 skirts of a crowd gathering from all parts of the city at 
 the news of the success of the " hue and cry." Bevill 
 pushed on to the Guildhall, dismounted at once, and 
 entering found himself close to Sir George Smith and other 
 magistrates. The Sheriff and his men had in custody two 
 men. One of them was a tall and powerful but ill-looking 
 man, whose bleeding head and torn clothes were evidence 
 that he had not been taken without a struggle. The 
 other man was of a different stamp, dark-skinned, with 
 beady eyes and jet-black hair; a sHght, active, well-built 
 man, he looked the sort of man who would never fight 
 unless he was pretty sure to get the best of the bout, but 
 would yield to superior force without a struggle. The 
 Mayor of Exeter announced that they must await the 
 coming of the man Paschowe, who had been robbed, that 
 he might identify these men. A smile passed over the 
 face of the dark-skinned man as he listened to the words
 
 Treague Carries Out His Plans 273 
 
 of his worship. In a few minutes Paschowe, with his 
 head bound up, and looking very pale, was brought into the 
 hall. All doubt was now over for Bevill and his man. 
 The latter had given the horses into the hands of a groom 
 standing by, and had entered behind his master. Bevill 
 laid his hand on his man's arm or he would have strode up 
 to Paschowe at once. 
 
 " Come here, my man," said the Mayor, " look at 
 these men and tell us if you recognise either or both of 
 them." 
 
 " Yoar worship d'know, as I've a said before, that I wer 
 knocked off my horse by some one from behind, but as I 
 fell I feel sartin sure as I seed the neck an' beard of that 
 there feller, but his face I did not clearly see." 
 
 " These things were found upon him," said the Sheriff; 
 " can you swear to them ? " 
 
 " Ees fay, that I can ; that's old Zippora Polsuth's 
 writing, as sure's I'm a livin' man." 
 
 At these words the dark man started, and muttered, 
 " Old Zip." Bevill heard him and turned quickly to 
 him, but the man's face was set and vacant now. The 
 things found on the other were produced one by one, 
 also some fourteen or fifteen gold jmcccs. Then Paschowe 
 spoke of his daughter, whom he had not seen since he was 
 knocked down, and implored the Mayor with tears to 
 make every effort to find her. Here the dark-haired man 
 again muttered something, which Bevill could not under- 
 stand, and asked in a quiet voice what there was against 
 him ; his pockets had been searched and nothing had been 
 found on him to incriminate him. Certainly he was in 
 Ben's company, for the man had come to his tent on the 
 moor. The Mayor told him that being found in the 
 company of one who was strongly suspected of robbing 
 Paschowe he would be kept in custody for the present. 
 
 s
 
 274 S^^ Bevill 
 
 " Be I allowed to ask a question ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said the Mayor. 
 
 " Then I wants to know if this here dell as 'e says rode 
 behind 'e, when he wer knocked off, wer any relation of 
 Zippora Polsuth ? " 
 
 " Yes, her is," said Paschowe. " Her's my daughter, 
 and Zippora were my mother's sister." 
 
 " Then I'll jest arsk one more. If so be as I finds old 
 Zip's niece, may I go free ? " 
 
 Here Anthony Payne broke in, for no power on earth 
 could restrain him. 
 
 " Ef so be as he produces Lizzie Paschowe safe an' 
 sound, no one shan't touch he afore they've slain me. 
 Her's my maid, an' I'll sarch this city an' this here country 
 till I find her." 
 
 " Not so fast, please, my man," interposed Sir George 
 Smith. " I know you well, Anthony Pa5me. You serve 
 Master Bevill Granville, whom I am glad to see here. 
 This man may, or may not, be able to find Mistress Paschowe, 
 but if we let him go free how are we to know that he has 
 any means of tracing this girl, and how are we to find him 
 again ? " 
 
 " If I may speak to this man alone, or an' it please, to 
 you also, I can show that I am making a fair offer." 
 
 After consulting with the Mayor, it was agreed that he 
 and Sir George, together with Bevill and Anthony Payne, 
 should hear the man's statement privately, and that the 
 Mayor should act as this small committee judged to be 
 best. 
 
 In private, the gypsy began by saying that he and his 
 tribe owed a debt of gratitude to Zippora Polsuth, and had 
 sworn to befriend her and all belonging to her. This oath 
 he and his tribe considered absolutely binding. Next, he 
 allowed that he knew the party hired to stop and rob
 
 Treague Carries Out His Plans 275 
 
 Paschowe and abduct his daughter, not knowing who they 
 were. He declined to give the name of the man who hired 
 them. Thirdly, he professed to be able to find members of 
 his tribe in and near Exeter who would aid in finding the girl, 
 some of whom probably knew where she was now concealed. 
 He was sure that if she disclosed her relationship to Zippora 
 she would be safe. The story was too evidently true to be 
 doubted. Bevill himself had marked the action of the man 
 when Zippora Polsuth's name was mentioned. The 
 question then arose, if they liberated the gypsy, who was 
 to go with him to receive Lizzie when found ? Anthony 
 pressed to be allowed, but his exceptional size and height 
 made him too conspicuous for such an undertaking. Bevill 
 offered to put himself entirely in the hands of the gypsy, 
 and, trusting him absolutely, to go with him and run any 
 risk that might have to be encountered. 
 
 This decision was made known to the Sheriff, and the 
 gypsy was liberated. Bevill accompanied the man, leaving 
 the Guildhall by a passage connected with a side-entrance. 
 The man led him through several narrow streets to a 
 lane east of the city. Here they found a tent by the 
 roadside, into which the gypsy, known as Romany Clark, 
 or familiarly as " The Teaser," entered, bidding Bevill wait 
 outside. He waited there for quite a quarter of an hour, 
 and heard within the voices of several men and a few 
 women, sometimes angry, often expostulating, occasionally 
 even violent. It seemed as if they would never come 
 to an agreement ; it was nervous work for even so stout- 
 hearted a man as Bevill. At last two men came out 
 and began speaking in a friendly tone to him. They said 
 their tent was unfit for a gentleman like him, and they 
 hardly liked to ask him to enter. Then, just as he began 
 to assure them that he was not particular as to uhere 
 he went provided he could find the lost girl, a tall woman
 
 276 Sir Bevill 
 
 who had come out after the men suddenly from behind 
 threw a blanket which she had on her arm over his head. 
 The two men pressed it close round his arms so that he 
 could not reach his dagger, had he wished to do so, and 
 pushed him into the tent. Thus blindfolded, he was 
 placed on a seat, and a man, whose cracked voice seemed 
 to denote great age, asked him to swear by God that neither 
 now nor at anytime any information he should gain of their 
 habits and movements should be used by him to their hurt. 
 Bevill replied simply that he would not swear by God, as he 
 held it to be unworthy of a gentleman to do more than give 
 his word, which, he added, he had never thought so lightly 
 of his honour as to break. The point of some sharp imple- 
 ment was placed at his breast, he could feel the cold steel, 
 and the condition was repeated. He gave the same reply, 
 adding, " I trusted your man's word, I should have thought 
 that you might trust mine." 
 
 At this he was liberated at once, and the old man who 
 had spoken took his hand and kissed it, " Sir, you are a 
 brave man," he said. 
 
 Clark now came to him and explained that Lizzie had 
 been brought to Exeter by one of their tribe, two days 
 before. The man who had hired Ben and the gypsies to 
 stop Paschowe had, according to his plan, met their 
 tribesman and pretended to rescue her, but the girl's 
 horror at seeing the fellow had made the gypsies pause, 
 and eventually bring her to his own people. She pleaded 
 so hard not to be given up to their employer, and this 
 together with an unwillingness on his part to pay the 
 money which the gypsies demanded, had caused a rupture 
 between them. However, when their employer had de- 
 parted Lizzie spoke of her aunt Zippora, and had at once 
 been offered her freedom. She told them that she was 
 sure Lady Smith would receive her and keep her safe till
 
 Treagne Carries Out His Plans 277 
 
 her father was found. Consequently, that very afternoon 
 they had conducted her on the road to Madford. 
 
 Just as Bevill had learned this to his entire satisfac- 
 tion, news was brought in that after their friends had 
 left Lizzie on the road, two men had seized the girl and 
 carried her, in spite of her screams, to an empty house 
 not far from Madford. Bevill started to his feet, and 
 Romany Clark offered to go at once with him to search 
 for Lizzie ; a lad, who had brought the message, was 
 waiting outside, and the three ran full speed, passing 
 down the very lane through which John EHot had walked 
 with Grace some three years before. They passed the 
 site of the old encampment, and then the lad stopped 
 and pointed to Zippora's old cottage. No sound was 
 heard, there was no light to be seen in the house. The 
 gypsy slipped by Bevill, and moving stealthily as a cat 
 reached the back of the cottage, then came back and 
 beckoned Bevill to come. There was a small window 
 near the back-door. Within was to be seen in the dim 
 light a rough, low-looking ruffian sitting at a table with a 
 glass and a bottle of spirits before him. With his back 
 to the window stood Trcague, his shoulders bent and his 
 head thrust forward, while opposite to him was a sight 
 which made every drop of Bevill's blood boil with wrath. 
 Poor sweet little Lizzie Paschowe was sitting tied by each 
 foot and hand to a chair ; a cord was round her waist and 
 another round her neck, fastening her to the high back of 
 the chair ; a coarse piece of cloth was tied round her chin 
 and mouth, and fastened behind her head. Trcague was 
 evidently venting his spite on her, and by the flash of her 
 eyes was reviling those she loved. Then he advanced to 
 her, pulled down the kerchief about licr mouth and put 
 his horrid face close to hers, as if he would kiss her. Bevill 
 could see that she spat in his face and that the coward
 
 278 Sir Bevill 
 
 raised his hand to strike her. In a moment he signed to 
 the gypsy Clark to stand at the window while he rushed 
 to the door with a shout. Throwing himself with all his 
 force against it, the old hinges gave way and he was in 
 the room with Treague. His dagger flashed in the candle- 
 light. The half-drunken scoundrel who rushed at him 
 received the hilt of it in his mouth, sending half his teeth 
 down his throat. Treague sprang at him like a tiger, 
 but only to have his shoulder laid bare to the bone, and 
 he fell cursing to the floor, weltering in his blood. The 
 gypsy was in the room now, and in half a minute had tied 
 the ruffians hand and foot. Bevill turned his attention 
 now to Lizzie, bidding Clarke and the lad see that Treague 
 did not escape. The poor child's clothes were so torn that 
 the rags of them barely covered her ; her ankles and wrists 
 were cut, and her mouth was bleeding, for Treague had 
 actually struck her. Tenderly and with soothing words, 
 Bevill assured her of her safety and unbound her limbs. 
 At first she was so dazed that she took him for a friendly 
 gypsy, but when she recognised his features she clung to 
 him like a child, her arms tightening convulsively round 
 his neck, as if she would never let him go. Bevill turned 
 to the gypsy. 
 
 " Run to Madford — bid Sir George and his daughter 
 come and bring a cloak — haste, lad, post-haste for dear 
 life ! " And away he ran. 
 
 " Canst stand, dear child ? or, better wait till Mistress 
 Grace comes. She will care for thee and tend thee, and 
 before long thou shalt see thy father, who is safe. Anthony 
 is with him." 
 
 They were not long in coming, though it seemed an age 
 to Lizzie. 
 
 A curious sight was that which met the eyes of Grace 
 Smith as she entered the cottage with her father. On
 
 Treagne Carries Out His Plans 279 
 
 the ground lay Treague, pale as a corpse from loss of 
 blood, one arm cut and useless, his feet tied together. 
 Near him, the other rufl&an, his face covered with blood, 
 his feet and hands tied together behind him as if trussed for 
 slaughter. The man was in a heavy sleep — they found 
 afterwards that in all probability Treague had drugged 
 his liquor, in order to cheat him of payment when he 
 carried off Lizzie. On the only chair sat the girl, her arms 
 still tightly clasping Bevill's neck, her head resting on his 
 shoulder as he knelt beside her. 
 
 " Thank God you are come, Grace. Take this poor 
 child, wrap her up, and I will carry her to Madford if 
 the good knight will permit me." 
 
 " Master Bevill, the Lord Almighty bless thee ; let me 
 carry Liz," cried Anthony, who entered at this moment. 
 
 Oh, how tenderly Grace wrapped a large warm cloak 
 round the poor child's limbs and gave her into the strong 
 arms of Anthony ! 
 
 Bevill accompanied them to the gate of Madford, and 
 was turning away to leave them when Sir George took his 
 hand, and with many a kind word led him into the house. 
 
 " Make so bold, sir," put in Romany Clark, " be I 
 wanted any more ? " 
 
 " Yes, my man," replied Sir George, " you have done 
 your part, but you must come before the Mayor to be 
 discharged properly. I see I can trust you." 
 
 " That there gentleman, or worship or squire or wotever 
 he \)c, have a givcd us all a lesson. My folks })ut he 
 through the hoop and he comcd out straighter than any 
 as I've seen yet. He's a man wuth yer ladysliip's lookin 
 at," he added, noting the look of deep interest in Grace's 
 face. " Yes, they put he through the hoop an' he did'n 
 flinch, he's straight. I'll be at that hall any time your 
 worship wants me."
 
 28o Sir Bevill 
 
 " Come at noon to-morrow, my man. I give you good- 
 night." 
 
 Those few words fell like balm on the heart of Grace, 
 and were not lost on her father. The old faith in the 
 friend of her childhood began to revive. Great and simple 
 had ever found him the same — strong, modest, and true ; 
 wherever a trusty hand was needed, wherever a wrong 
 cried out to be redresssed, wherever a woman, or a child, 
 a weakling or a cripple found the harsh world unkind or 
 cruel, if Bevill's hand were near it was sure to be raised 
 in defence, no matter how great the odds against him. 
 He was the same now as ever. A horde of gypsies had 
 him in their power, and he had never, as Clark bore 
 witness, never flinched. 

 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 TRIAL AND SENTENCE 
 
 THAT night Bevill lay at Madford, but before he slept 
 he had despatched Anthony with a message to Lord 
 Exmoor to explain the situation. 
 Few of the inhabitants of the " ever faithful " city could 
 have guessed, when they arose from sleep on the following 
 morning, the greatness as well as the variety of the interests 
 whose issues hung in the balance that day. The "hue and 
 cry" which had ended in a measure of success on the 
 previous day, though in itself exciting enough, was not 
 a matter of such infrequent occurrence as to raise more 
 than a temporary stir among the citizens. 
 
 But there was an underlying cause of interest amounting 
 almost to dread on the part of some. Like the seethe and 
 rattle of the first retreating Atlantic wave on the North 
 Cornish coast, which told of the rising thunder of the 
 ground-swell, and the far-off storm in the bosom of the 
 mighty ocean, the capture of the two men, evidently 
 concerned in robbery and abduction, was proof to them 
 of a danger threatening the peace and safety of their 
 ancient town. In spite of the severity of the penal 
 statutes which made of common occurrence penalties 
 terrible to our modern and more merciful cars ; in spite 
 of the cruel mutilations inflicted on traitors, poisoners 
 (who were boiled alive), highwaymen, cut-purses, and 
 thieves, the bands of miscreants increased. At times
 
 282 Sir Bevill 
 
 they made common cause with the gypsies, and setthng 
 down on some town or district, laid the whole country 
 round under contribution, and established a complete 
 reign of terror. There had been whispers of a dread of 
 this kind for some weeks past in the neighbourhood of 
 Exeter. Countrj-men had been stopped returning from 
 market and eased of the price of their sheep or wool ; only 
 ten days since four stout yeomen riding home together 
 for mutual safety had been dismounted and left in the 
 high road, not many miles from Crediton, without steeds, 
 doublets, or purses. It was said, too, that children had 
 mysteriously disappeared, that the daughter of a farmer 
 on Exmoor had been captured and forced against her 
 will to join a gypsy tribe. These, and many other tales 
 more or less true, had gone the round of the taverns in 
 Exeter for many a day. 
 
 Now, your Englishman is a brave and fighting animal, 
 and can give as good an account of himself as another — 
 and somewhat better — in an open fray; but he loves not 
 terrors unseen — witchcraft is bad enough and stirs his 
 blood, but the thought of an unseen power, secret, mysteri- 
 ous, now banded together, now scattered for miles, speaking 
 an unknown tongue, converging on the precincts of their 
 own sacred city — the very thought was awful ! Were 
 they to bear it ? The very thought was disgrace ! Had 
 not their fathers caught and tried the rascal Hopper who 
 passed as the great Doctor Pinchbeck, and having stolen 
 two horses, rode into Exeter, where he committed murder, 
 and was duly hanged ? So it came to pass that, when the 
 ruffianly Ben was captured by the hue and cry after a 
 fight, and with his companion, gypsy Clark, brought into 
 the Guildhall, the fact that the gypsy offered at once to 
 find the abducted girl as the price of his own release 
 caused grave suspicion in many minds : suspicion that
 
 Trial and Sentence 283 
 
 somewhere — very near indeed to their homes and fire- 
 sides — was a band of dangerous knaves, who had 
 invaded the country in, probably, great numbers, and 
 were hkely to prove a cause of serious trouble to the 
 city. 
 
 It was soon noised abroad that the girl had been found, 
 that she had been seized again and ill-treated, and only 
 rescued by the marvellous courage of young Master Gran- 
 ville. The whole city was astir. Crowds of men and 
 women stood outside the gate of Madford waiting the 
 appearance of their most trusted citizen, for it was felt 
 that if any man could preserve the peace and security of 
 the city, that man was Sir George Smith. 
 
 In due course he appeared, and with him Master Bevill 
 Granville, from Stow in Cornwall, while at the entrance 
 of the Guildhall, in converse with his worship the Mayor, 
 no less a personage than the Earl of Exmoor was seen, 
 one of the most noted magnates of Somerset, and with him 
 Sir John Eliot, of Port Eliot in Cornwall, Vice-Admiral of 
 Devon. Exeter was beside itself as these names were 
 passed from mouth to mouth. Half a score of stout 
 serving-men, in blue and silver, attended their lord, and 
 among them towered the giant form of Anthony Payne. 
 Exeter was glad at their appearing ; and the Mayor's 
 watch, with their bills, felt, and looked, like an army 
 reinforced. Nor were they sparing of their breath : 
 " Room for his worship," " Make way, ye knaves," " Place 
 for his nobility, the Earl of Exmoor," " Make room, make 
 room." " Way for Sir George Smith." So, amid hubbub 
 and shouting, their worships at length gained the com- 
 parative quiet of the great hall. The Mayor, attended 
 by aldermen, took his seat ; on his right was Sir George, 
 and on his left Lord Exmoor and Sir John Eliot, who 
 had been requested by the Mayor to assist him on the
 
 284 Sir Bevill 
 
 bench. Thus the three western counties were well and 
 nobly represented. 
 
 Great was the excitement when no less than four 
 prisoners were brought in by the Under- Sheriffs and 
 constables. Two of the men were strongly bound, their 
 hands, and elbows also, being drawn together behind them ; 
 their feet chained, and a cord with a running-knot round 
 their necks. The third prisoner. Master Treague, was 
 carried in on a stretcher, and had evidently nearly died 
 from loss of blood. Truly he was in a dismal plight. A 
 surgeon had been procured, who had sewn up his wounded 
 shoulder, only just in time to keep life in his miserable 
 carcase. The fourth presented himself unbound, with 
 the cheerful air of a man who has spent his life in being a 
 blessing to his neighbours. Two constables were at once 
 directed by the Mayor to stand on either side of him, 
 but not to bind him, unless directed to do so by the bench. 
 The Clerk of the Peace and several other clerks were 
 seated at the table. The hall was crowded with citizens. 
 Here and there a swarthy face told of the Egyptian vaga- 
 bond, accompanied by one or more of the other sex, 
 their heads bound round with red-silk scarves, a long 
 knife in sheath at their girdles. 
 
 The first case heard and disposed of was that of the 
 man Ben, who gave his name as Ben Dorney, of no particular 
 place, had been a soldier and was now a cattle-drover. The 
 evidence against him was that he was found with Master 
 Paschowe's property, and was sworn to by the carpenter as 
 one of three men who had stopped him. The case was 
 clear, and the man had little to say except that he had 
 never seen Master Paschowe, and had bought the goods 
 found on him of a countryman, whose name he did not know. 
 
 His worship the Mayor bade him wait till the other 
 cases had been heard.
 
 Trial and Sentence 285 
 
 Gipsy Clark was next called. He had been found in 
 company with Dorney, was searched by the constables, 
 but had only a few copper coins and none of Paschowe's 
 property on him ; he had not resisted the constables ; he 
 said that the tent in which he was found was his own, 
 and that Dorney had come to it for shelter the night before. 
 He had undertaken to find the girl, and had done so in 
 company with Master Granville, as the latter could testify. 
 Bevill was called upon to substantiate this, which he 
 did; and the Mayor was proceeding to dismiss the 
 gypsy when one of the aldermen, Silas Stubbes by name, 
 interposed. 
 
 " It cometh into my heart, your worship, to speak. 
 This son of Belial hath been proved to have aided and 
 abetted the evildoer, who, if he did not commit murder, 
 yet was clearly of a mind to do so when he struck and 
 robbed the injured man. What is it to us, who are Gord's 
 ministers in this very thing, what is it to us that he was 
 able to seek out this young woman ? Does it not merely 
 prove that he not only was an associate and an abettor 
 of thieves and robbers, but also of those who committed 
 the crime of abduction ? We, your worship, did not put 
 our hands to the bargain. Are we to let him go back to 
 his vile companions and make his boast that in this loyal 
 and faithful city the ungordly are green as the grass and 
 all the workers of wickedness can flourish ? No, your 
 worship, I move that the man be bidden to stand aside 
 and await judgment." 
 
 Sir George Smith reminded his worshij) that no voice 
 had been raised on the previous day to the condition 
 that Clark should be released if he could restore the girl 
 to her father. He had done so ; the girl was safe at his 
 house, and could even give evidence, if desired, that 
 Clark was not one of those who had attacked her father.
 
 286 Sir Bevill 
 
 The Mayor thought that Mistress Paschowe should attend 
 the Court and give evidence. 
 
 In due course Lizzie appeared. Asked if she recognised 
 any one of the prisoners as having assaulted her father 
 she pointed out Dorney, and said that she had never seen 
 Clark till last night. On this gypsy Clark was released. 
 Master Stubbes rose and left his chair in seeming great 
 indignation ; but returned after conferring with one of 
 the clerks and another in the court. 
 
 Meanwhile the ruffian Dorset, who had assisted Treague, 
 was examined. Lizzie swore that he and Treague had 
 seized her, dragged her into the old cottage and bound 
 her to a chair. The man was ordered to stand aside and 
 await his sentence. 
 
 Treague was now brought forward between two con- 
 stables. His face was pale as death, his right arm was 
 bandaged to his side, and his clothes were stiff with blood. 
 Lizzie described his meeting with her after her father 
 had been knocked down. She was riding on her father's 
 horse, tied to a man who had taken her father's place. 
 Clark was not one of the four men who had attacked her 
 father. Ben Dorney was the leader of the gang. A man 
 had held her on the horse after her father had fallen, and 
 had tied her with a rope to one who mounted into her 
 father's saddle. Treague had met them and pretended to 
 deliver her — had pointed a pistol at the man to whom 
 she was bound. She had prayed the man not to give her 
 up to Treague. A dispute arose between them about 
 money ; the one demanded ten pounds, and Treague 
 offered him two, which he refused. At last the man 
 carried her into Exeter, Treague following them. They 
 came to a gypsy camp outside the town ; she was taken 
 inside. She stayed with them two days ; then on learning 
 that Zippora Polsuth was her aunt the gypsies said that
 
 Trial and Sentence 28 j 
 
 Zippora was a good, kind woman, and that they had 
 promised to protect her and all belonging to her. Treague 
 had gone away very angry, and the gypsies had laughed 
 at him. She begged to be sent to Madford, and at last 
 they consented ; two of them, a man and a woman, took 
 her till she was about half a mile from the house and 
 left her. When she reached the old cottage by the roadside 
 near Madford, Treague and another, the man called 
 Dorset, rushed out, carried her inside the house in spite 
 of her cries, gagged her and bound her to a chair. Then 
 Treague gave Dorset spirits — she saw him pour something 
 into his glass when the man was not looking. Treague 
 said all kinds of horrible things to her, and then the door 
 was opened and Master Granville rushed in, knocked 
 down Dorset first, and then, when Treague attacked 
 him, wounded him with his dagger, and set her free. 
 She could not remember anything more till Miss Smith 
 wrapped her up in a cloak and Master Granville's servant 
 carried her into the house. 
 
 The girl's evidence was given so simply and clearly that 
 it carried conviction to all unprejudiced minds ; few 
 when they listened could have imagined the strife of words 
 that was to ensue. Master Stubbes had some difficulty 
 in restraining his impatience while listening to Lizzie's 
 words. As she ceased, he broke in with : 
 
 " You say, mistress, that when you and your father 
 were stopped and assaulted, that you were tied on your 
 horse to one of the robbers ?" 
 
 " Yes, ycr honour." 
 
 " And that Master Treague met you, pistol in hand, 
 and tried to deliver you ? " 
 
 " He tried to get me into his own power." 
 
 " He is an old friend of your father, and a man of Gord ! 
 Why should you prefer going away with this evil limb of
 
 288 Sir Bevill 
 
 Satan, to being taken care of by one of the saints ? I 
 fear you are a light wench." 
 
 " An' thou sayest that word again," shouted a loud 
 voice in the hall, " I'll twist thy ugly head off." 
 
 " Silence in the court !" cried an Under-Sheriff. 
 
 " Sir George, be I to stan' quiet and hear yon lousy 
 rascal defame my maid ? " quoth Anthony Payne, thrust- 
 ing his broad shoulders through the throng up to the clerks' 
 table before the bench. 
 
 " You must keep silence in court, man. You will 
 only do harm by speech," said Sir George quietly. 
 
 " Am I to be threatened in our own hall of justice ? "said 
 the alderman, " by this loud-voiced Cornish roisterer ? 
 Your worship, master Mayor, can see the company which 
 this damsel is wont to keep. She is a lewd one, and refused 
 to be taken back to her father by the good man whom she 
 now accuseth of dishonour." 
 
 " Mr. Mayor," said Bevill rising to his feet, " I cannot 
 permit those words to be spoken in my presence without 
 contradiction. The maiden is no unknown nor ill-con- 
 ditioned wench, but as true and pure a Cornish maid as 
 shall be found in that or any county. She hath good cause 
 to suspect the purpose of Master Treague, as her father and 
 I well know. And to my thinking she was wiser to trust 
 herself to a tribe of gypsies than to him." 
 
 " That's God's truth," said a woman's voice in the hall. 
 
 " Silence in the hall ! " shouted the Mayor. " If we are 
 interrupted again, I shall clear the court." 
 
 " Were it not well, your worship," said Sir John Eliot, 
 in the soft winning tones of that wonderful voice which 
 here, as ever in the House of Parliament, seemed to carry 
 with it a sense of confidence and entire trust, " Were it not 
 well," he repeated, as the murmurs in court died down, 
 " for us to hear what the father of this young woman hath
 
 Trial and Sentence 289 
 
 to say ? If he were to give his evidence now, we might 
 gather some just grounds either for his daughter's state- 
 ment, or to corroborate the worthy justice who has just 
 spoken. It seemeth to me that we need hear all the facts 
 of the case." 
 
 " Are the justices of Exeter to be ruled by these Cornish 
 choughs ? " said Master Stubbes. 
 
 " It is true that my friend, Master Bevill Granville," 
 replied Sir John Eliot, " comes to us from Stowe in Corn- 
 wall, but he also is on the commission of the peace, as I 
 well know, for Bideford in Devon. And for myself, who 
 am a Cornishman, I think, master Mayor, that his 
 Majesty's Vice-Admiral of Devon can hardly be reproached 
 for speaking in an Exeter court of justice. But, worthy 
 Sirs, let us hear the evidence." 
 
 " Methinks it will be best," put in Sir George Smith, 
 " to have the father's statement." 
 
 Master Paschowe was called, and came with assistance 
 in front of the bench. He was very weak and spoke with 
 some difficulty. Of course he was entirely ignorant as to 
 what took place after he was knocked from his horse. 
 Asked if Master Treague had any ill will against him and 
 his, he said it was hard to say whether the man had or no. 
 He had caused the death of his mother's sister by false 
 accusations, but of late he had tried to be on friendly terms 
 with his family. 
 
 " Is it not a fact that only last Christmas he made your 
 mother a valuable present ? " inquired Master Stubbes. 
 
 " Yes, he sent my mother an Irish cow last Yulctide." 
 
 " A noble present ! " ejaculated Stubbes. 
 
 " Ees fey," cried out a woman in the crowd, " Imt he 
 stolcd it fust." 
 
 " Silence in the court I " shouted a constable. 
 
 A woman of unusual height, dark-complexioned, and 
 
 T
 
 290 Sir Bevill 
 
 with an abundance of raven hair partly conceeiled by a red 
 silk kerchief bound round her head, and fastened in front 
 with a massive gold brooch, pushed her way to the clerk's 
 table and confronted the Mayor. 
 
 " You gentry can hear me, and whether you believe 
 what I say or not, will not matter the value of a straw to 
 me. You know me an' mine, master Mayor ; I am Blazing 
 Star, an' you know I am no common mort (woman). This 
 here dell (girl) was brought to me and put in my care by 
 a friend. That man Treague came and claimed her, said 
 he had paid to have her handed over to him. I said, 
 ' What for ? ' ' For my use,* said he. My people said, 
 ' What money ? ' 'A bung (purse) of gold,' he said. 
 * How many ? ' our people asked ; he said, ' Three,' our 
 people said, ' Ten.' Then I said, ' No, nor ten hundred,' 
 for I thought her a bien mort (good woman), and we drove 
 the scurvy knave out. Then she told me of his ways, 
 and how kind he had been of late to her, and had given 
 her grannie a little black Irish cow with one crumpled 
 horn, and I said, ' Marked on one shoulder with a small 
 B. S. ? ' an' she said, ' Yes.' ' Ah,' said I, ' he must have 
 stole it from me. I bought it at Saint Genys in Cornwall 
 off a trading ship from Ireland, and she strayed and was 
 stolen from me. So I swore to help the dell to her friends. 
 There's all the truth, yer worship." 
 
 " A gypsy lie !" quoth Master Stubbes. 
 
 " Shall I bring Long Meg of Crediton to tell with thee 
 about lyin', Master Stubbes?" The man turned white 
 to the lips, as if he had seen a ghost. Then recovering him- 
 self, he cried out, redfaced : 
 
 " There, get along, woman, get along, we've had enough 
 of thy cant," She bent down her dark head and long neck 
 towards the man, and just hissed out, " Meg's in court with 
 thy brat, and her knife."
 
 Trial and Sentence 29 1 
 
 John Eliot, who was next to Stubbes, heard every word 
 and came to the poor wretch's aid, for he shook with fear. 
 
 " My good dame, we have heard thy tale and will not 
 detain thee, Mr, Mayor, it seemeth to me that the case 
 against this Treague stands clearly corroborated. The 
 maiden Paschowe is well known and of good character, 
 her story coincideth with that of the woman who hath 
 given evidence but now, and that again agreeth with the 
 words and acts of the man Clark, whose promise fulfilled, 
 proved him a man to be trusted. Can we not then come 
 to conclusions as to the punishments to be meted out to 
 these who have so grievously broken the law ? " 
 
 " I thank thee, Sir John Eliot, for recalling us to our 
 business," said the Mayor. " There are capital offences 
 of highway robbery and personal assault, and assisting 
 Treague in abducting the maiden Paschowe, proved 
 against Ben Dorney first. Is it your pleasure that he be 
 hanged ? — No word being spoken against it, — that is 
 the sentence of our Court. Secondly, gipsy Clark was 
 promised freedom on certain conditions. There is but 
 faint evidence that he was with the robbers, he fulfilled 
 the conditions, and is therefore set at liberty, Zachariah 
 Treague and the man Dorset have been proved to be guilty 
 of assault on the highway, and also of abducting and 
 assaulting Elizabeth Paschowe. Let any who have a 
 word to say against the extreme penalty of the law being 
 put in force, speak." 
 
 " Worshipful Sir," said Bevill, " I would fain plead for 
 mercy, I have myself inflicted heavy chastisement on two of 
 these men, and done them great hurt, I ask the Court to 
 spare their hves." 
 
 A stout, genial old alderman here exclaimed, " Little 
 like I hanging; 'tis a gross unwholesome act, from which 
 there is no recovery. I would the knaves should be well
 
 292 Sir Bevill 
 
 whipped at the cart's tail, from one end of the city to the 
 other," "Agreed I" cried several voices ; and his worship 
 the Mayor pronounced sentence accordingly. 
 
 Stern, hard days were those ; no plea of sickness or 
 weakness of body restrained the execution of the sentence 
 of the law. Three carts slowly lumbered through the 
 ancient city. Starting from the bridge at the bottom 
 of the town, three human beings were bound one to each 
 cart-tail, each stripped to the waist. On either side a 
 stalwart Under- Sheriff walked, flourishing his knotted 
 cat-o' -nine-tails, and every moment from one or other, 
 the thong descended with a swish across the bare flesh 
 of the wretched victim. Up the steep hill the horses 
 dragged the empty carts. Toiling behind them groaned 
 and cursed those who had so lightly held the pain and 
 suffering of others. Ben Dorney, an old offender, slipped 
 and swerved, or almost fell as each blow descended, trying 
 with the success of practice to break its force. But 
 Treague, miserable, weak, and broken, without courage, soft, 
 selfish and pampered, before a hundred yards had been 
 traversed, had fallen to his knees and reached the Guildhall 
 dragged through the mire. The Sheriff halted the cart 
 and Treague was unbound^ but he lay like a log in the 
 road. 
 
 " Lift him into the cart and flog him there," shouted 
 the mob ; but the constables lifted a corpse.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 BEVILL COUNTS HIS LOST HOURS 
 
 WHILE the trial was proceeding, Grace Smith and her 
 mother had occupied a seat below the bench of jus- 
 tices and in a great measure protected from the 
 crowd, partly by a slight barrier and partly by the corner of 
 the clerk's table. Seated with their backs to the crowd they 
 could hear every word that was spoken. Great was Mistress 
 Grace's indignation at the unworthy imputation cast on 
 her little friend Lizzie by Master Stubbes, and she felt 
 grieved nnd disappointed at what seemed to her the back- 
 wardness of those who knew the girl to speak in her defence; 
 her father was silent, Bevill said a few words of truth but 
 not half enough to her mind, and there was a whisper in 
 her heart, " Oli, that Sir John Eliot would speak — then 
 indeed the innocent would be defended." Sir John rose, 
 but his words seemed even tamer and more qualified than 
 those of Bevill. How she wished that she were a man, 
 and could show them how to speak out fearlessly on the 
 side of right ! What were all these men afraid off ? 
 
 They did not remain in court till sentence was passed. 
 On their way home, Mistress Grace was by no means happy, 
 and as they entered the quiet grounds of Madford she 
 could not help putting tlie question to her mother, why, 
 knowing as they did the virtue and truth of Lizzie, tiiose 
 friends were so lukewarm, as it seemed, in defending her. 
 
 " It is quite natural for you to think so," rei)licd her 
 mother ; " but remember, dearest child, that which thy father
 
 294 Sir Bevill 
 
 hath so often spoken, that they who sit in judgment must put 
 aside favour, and search for the absolute truth only and 
 justice of the case before them. We women are apt to be 
 hasty and too pronounced in expressing our feelings. Nay, 
 further, I thought that Master Bevill said just as much as, 
 and no more than, was fitting for him. I could see that 
 your father approved greatly of his words." 
 
 Grace said no more, but sat long in her chamber revolv- 
 ing in her mind many puzzling questions. The words of 
 the gypsy the night before had struck her greatly. He was 
 a stranger to Bevill, yet he bore to his character the same 
 testimony that so many had given in former days. His 
 people had tried him severely and found him fearless in 
 courage, steadfast to protect the innocent and the weak. 
 The soft winning voice of Eliot had hardly been raised 
 at all in favour of the poor injured girl. That pale face 
 with the far-off look in his eyes scarcely touched the chords 
 of her heart now as once it had done. Delicate and beauti- 
 ful it was doubtless, angehc it had almost seemed to her 
 youthful eyes, but the maturer woman in her was now 
 drawn to the open fearless look of her cousin Bevill. She 
 noted with pride his square, manly figure, frank blue eyes, 
 and lips, trembling at one moment with sympathy and 
 gentleness, and at the next closing in with the firm deter- 
 mination of a resolute mind. Yes, she had watched 
 him closely, and though his words had not satisfied her 
 ideas of what was due to one of her sex when attacked, 
 yet she had read a good deal of the nobility of her former 
 lover's nature. Why was he not her lover now ? Well- 
 nigh two years had passed ; he had doubtless been in 
 constant communication with the Lady Jane, he was now 
 staying with her father, but there was no sound of any ques- 
 tion of marriage between them. 
 
 She was turning this over and over in her mind as she
 
 Bevill counts his Lost Hours 295 
 
 gazed out of her latticed window at the wealth of flowers 
 in her garden below, the bravery of that rose tree which 
 had brought George Herbert's lines to John Eliot's lips 
 years ago — could it be only three ? — it seemed half a life- 
 time ! A voice at her door made her turn and call the 
 speaker to enter. It was Lizzie Paschowe. 
 
 " Oh, lady, is it not dreadful ? It shames me to think 
 of the words that man dared to use of me. Ah ! but I felt 
 safe when dear Master Bevill spoke. Isn't he noble ? 
 Then, mistress, wasn't it lovely, too, to see those great 
 men ? Lord Exmoor — they say he's an Earl — whatever 
 that is. Lor ! he stuck there an* never uttered a word. 
 Tony says as he's got a daughter as they thinks a lot of, 
 but, lor, mistress, he says as you'm a puffec flower to 
 she." 
 
 Lizzie had left the door wide open. There was a sound, 
 and both turned from the window. Framed in the door- 
 way stood the object of Lizzie's last disparaging remark — 
 Lady Jane Exe. 
 
 " Your pardon, fair Mistress Grace. It seems that I 
 am fated to find you in your chamber, though I rejoice to 
 see, not now in your bed. Your mother bade me seek 
 you here." 
 
 She held out both her hands to Grace, and drawing her 
 slight figure to her, kissed her on both her cheeks. 
 
 Poor Lizzie stood aghast. The dark, flashing eyes, 
 the smooth, but almost swarthy complexion, the very 
 bearing of licr head revealed and put to shame her Tony's 
 description of the Lady Jane Exe. And Jane looked 
 glorious in her riding attire, looked as she did on the foot 
 hills of Dartmoor when she rode by Bevill's side and 
 almost made a raid into his heart's fortress. 
 
 " Mistress Grace, please, may I go below ?" 
 
 " This is the maiden, Lady Jane, who has been so
 
 296 Sir Bevill 
 
 cruelly and foully dealt with by that evil wretch, Master 
 Treague, whom I wot they will hang as he deserves." 
 
 " Come hither, maiden ; I have heard of thee more than 
 once ; thou hast taken possession of the heart of good 
 Master Granville's giant. He says that thou art a ' puffec 
 flower,' " and she imitated to perfection poor Lizzie's 
 words, which she caught as she entered the room. Lizzie 
 turned scarlet, but only the absolute loss of her tongue 
 could keep that member still. 
 
 " You'm fery welcome, my lady, to make sport of me 
 an' my Tony cos he's big an* I'm httle, but Tony 'ud lay 
 down his life for me, an' I only trust yer ladyship has got 
 a young man of yer own as' 11 do the like for you, meanin' 
 no offence." 
 
 Lizzie's excited nerves gave her unwonted courage, and 
 a freedom of speech which took Grace's breath away. 
 
 " You may go below, Lizzie Paschowe ; the Lady Jane 
 will excuse your words, I am sure." 
 
 " No excuse is needed, my child," said Jane laying her 
 hand gently on the young girl's shoulder. " Thou hast 
 a quick tongue, and a ready wit ; and sure I am that thy 
 great man deserves thy praise, for he is as brave as he is 
 strong." 
 
 " Aye, that he is, my lady ; and Tony has the advantage 
 of me, he can keep his tongue betwixt his teeth, which is 
 more than I can 'pon times." 
 
 " 'Tis a useful virtue, child, one that often saves both 
 man and woman from trouble." 
 
 " Yes, my lady, I've heerd Gaffer Digory tell the same. 
 He said when he were younger he wer once upon a jury 
 about a man as killed hisself, an' the rest of the jury found 
 as he'd failed into the sea, but gaffer says, ' I know'd 
 better, but I said nought, for he wer a cousin o' mine, 
 an' I cut 'un down wen he'd hanged hisself, an' he
 
 Bevil counts his Lost Hours 297 
 
 had Christian burial,' so 'twer just as well to hold his 
 tongue." 
 
 " Lizzie, dear child," said Grace laughing, " thy tongue, 
 methinks, will be the death of us, if thou recountest any 
 more of gaffer's tales," 
 
 And Lizzie withdrew, with the conscious pride of one 
 who has given a Roland for an Oliver, 
 
 " Now, dear Mistress Grace, I have made bold to come 
 once more as a messenger of peace — as I trust — to thy heart. 
 Thy lover has been staying with us at Pennycombe, and 
 if I know anything of the ways and hearts of men, and I 
 have had some little experience of both, I know this, that 
 no maid in this fair West of England has a truer and 
 nobler heart, a heart more devoted to his mistress, than is 
 Bevill Granville's heart to thee," 
 
 " My father, Lady Jane, does not approve of his suit, 
 and I am bound by my good father's will," She spoke 
 somewhat stiffly and words came as if with reluctance. 
 
 " I have seen my father with thine but now, dear child. 
 My father is no mean judge of men, though he uscth but 
 few words. He spoke of the bearing and actions of Master 
 Granville in such words as I have seldom heard him use 
 of any man. Sir John Eliot was with them, and gave his 
 assent, and more, to every meed of praise. My father 
 asserted that, from what he heard, few men would have 
 gone through that, which Master Bevill treated but lightly, 
 among the gypsies. He took his life in his hand for that 
 little talking maiden ; what a witty child it is ! — and his 
 bearing in court to-day, my father said, was worthy of one 
 twice his age. He will l;e a great man, and greater still 
 if he has thy sweet steadfast heart to cheer him on to noble 
 deeds." 
 
 Grace sank into a chair and covered her face with her 
 hands. The day had been full of excitement ; her mind was
 
 298 Sir Bevill 
 
 overwrought. Tears began to flow freely through her 
 fingers. Jane kissed her forehead tenderly and left her. 
 
 In the withdrawing-room were gathered with Sir George 
 Smith not only Bevill, Sir John Eliot and Lord Exmoor, 
 but the Mayor of Exeter and two other of the city justices. 
 They were discussing with some warmth the conduct of 
 Master Alderman Stubbes, and his discomfiture by the 
 gypsy woman, 
 
 "He is not a good man," said Sir George. " Under a 
 cloak of puritanical piety he tries to conceal meanness 
 and, I fear, gross sensuality. ' The Lord's lambs must 
 be allowed to play,' he is said to have remarked to a neigh- 
 bour who had reason to know of his wantonness." 
 
 " Yes," said Sir John Eliot, " that gypsy Queen seemed 
 to have proof in court of his misdeeds. 'Tis wonder that 
 such as he should dare to sit in a court of justice. But 
 Master Shakespeare had such in his eye when he penned 
 his play of Measure for Measure. I should not be sur- 
 prised to hear of his closer acquaintance with a gypsy 
 woman's knife. They are a very revengeful race and do 
 not easily forget an insult to their women." 
 
 "That woman, 'Blazing Star' as she calls herself, is 
 somewhat remarkable," said Sir George. " She is almost 
 always in or near Exeter and exercises a restraining in- 
 fluence over the rough tribe that call her Queen. Her 
 brother married a Devonshire girl and died some years ago. 
 He was called Clark and is probably the father of that 
 man who was taken by the hue and cry, a quiet, clever- 
 looking rascal." 
 
 " Yes, he is ' Blazing Star's ' nephew," put in Alderman 
 Phillips, " but the gypsy blood is weak in the man ; he would 
 leave them if he had a chance." 
 
 " I have given him a chance," said Bevill, " and he has 
 accepted it and is now in my service. I like the fellow ;
 
 u 
 
 Bevill counts his Lost Hours 299 
 
 he is, I am sure, honest as well as clever. Anthony Payne 
 will make a man of him." 
 
 " Anthony Payne's master, more likely," quoth John 
 Eliot. 
 
 Lady Jane here entered the room and took her father 
 aside. 
 
 " I pray thee, father, say all thou canst to Sir George 
 Smith about Master Granville. Tell him, I beg thee, how 
 willingly thou wouldst give him thy daughter in marriage, 
 hadst thou one that would marry." 
 
 The Earl looked at his daughter with a shrewd but 
 rather comical smile. 
 
 " He will not have thee ? or wilt not marry him ? " 
 
 " Neither one nor other, dear father. His heart is with 
 Grace Smith, and he is one of those who do not quickly 
 change." 
 
 " So be it, mistress, I do thy bidding." 
 
 Lady Jane went across the room to Lady Smith and 
 seated herself by that lady's side. Lord Exmoor was 
 soon with Sir George, who was conducting the two citizens 
 to the door. 
 
 " My daughter and yours, Sir George, have formed a 
 very close friendshij)." He paused as if he had no more 
 to say. 
 
 " My daughter and I are honoured by tliat friendship," 
 said Sir George. " Your daughter is one of ten thousand ; 
 the Court itself seems unable to deprive her of tlu- rich 
 bloom of her perfect womanliness. She has rare gifts. 
 Shall I be accounted unmannerly if I ask the truth of a 
 rumour that Master Bevill Granville has had tlie good 
 fortune to win the rare prize of your daughter's hand ? 
 I know that he is your Lordship's guest." 
 
 " Nay, Sir George, it is not so ; much as I could desire the 
 alliance, which indeed has been solicited by Master Bcvill's
 
 300 Sir Bevill 
 
 father ; but my daughter has taken to her mind to imitate 
 our late glorious monarch, and vows she will never wed, 
 though I never knew her hold any man so highly as she 
 doth Master Granville, unless it were Sir John Eliot, For 
 my part I hold with Sir John that a finer character than 
 Master Granville has been rarely found. I went to sea 
 with his grandfather and had the friendship of that great 
 and noble leader ; fearless, but not more so than his grand- 
 son, true and straight as a mast, Bevill adds to his grand- 
 sire's character a kindly spirit of quiet power which foretells 
 greatness. My daughter vows that he worships thine 
 and will look at none other." 
 
 " Is that so, my lord ? It was so once, I believe, but 
 he has seen more of the world since then." 
 
 " If I mistake not he will not change. And good sooth. 
 Sir George, from what I have seen of the Lady Grace, he 
 hath httle cause to change. But we have some miles to 
 travel and my lady will be anxious. May I ask that our 
 horses be saddled ? " 
 
 Meanwhile Bevill had caught sight of a figure passing 
 into the garden and thought he recognised the lady of his 
 heart. Leaving the withdrawing-room he followed as 
 quickly as he could, to find Grace by the sun-dial in the 
 inner garden. She had a paper in her hand that she 
 hurriedly concealed as Bevill drew near. The air seemed 
 fully charged with electricity (as we should say). The 
 day's excitement had opened heart to heart, and if any- 
 thing were needed now to help the lovers to understand 
 each other's mood it was present in the sight of the lovely 
 spot where they stood, as they had often stood, boy and 
 girl together, facing each other by the old sun-dial. 
 " Pereunt et imputantur" was the legend carved on its 
 granite pedestal. The air was heavy with the scent of a 
 thousand flowers, the bees droned sleepily in the hot sun-
 
 'MAV I CLAIM IMKK MINK, GKACE?"
 
 Bevill counts his Lost Hoitrs 30 1 
 
 shine. Great painted " red admirals " fanned the hollyhocks 
 with scarlet and settled on the blooms, the water of the 
 fountain dripped and sparkled and sang to the marble 
 basin as it fell. 
 
 " Doth mark the legend, Grace ? " said Bevill. 
 
 " What legend, Bevill ? " said Grace. 
 
 " Pereunt." ^' 
 
 " Aye, the hours pass or perish." 
 
 " Each hour without love is an hour perished." 
 
 " Think you so ? Hast lost a many ? " and she raised 
 her eyes almost, but not quite, to his. There was just 
 the thought of cynicism in her tone. 
 
 " Canst do arithmetic, Grace ? " 
 
 " Aye, Bevill." 
 
 " Four times thirty, Grace ? " 
 
 " One hundred and twenty, Bevill." 
 
 " Seven times one hundred and twenty, Grace ? " 
 
 " Eight hundred and forty, Bevill, and I will do no more 
 sums." 
 
 " Multiply that by twenty- four and you will find my 
 lost, my perished hours, Grace. All the hours without 
 thy love. Have I not outdone Jacob in waiting ? What 
 were seven years to that great lazy patriarcli ? Sure, he 
 slept it away. To me every moment was a pang that de- 
 prived mc of thy love. Grace ! " 
 
 " Yes, Bevill ? " He moved a step nearer. 
 
 " You love me still ? " 
 ' Yes, Bevill." He was by her side. 
 
 " May I claim thee mine, Grace ? " 
 
 " Yes, Bevill." 
 
 His arms were around her. Her head rested on his 
 breast, and her fair hair filled his senses with fragrance. 
 He looked up, and Sir George and his lady were standing 
 inside the garden gate. Bevill met their looks, but found
 
 302 Sir Bevill 
 
 in them no repulse or refusal. He held Grace gently, 
 lifting her face to his and kissed her lips. There was a 
 scrap of paper on the ground in writing that he recognised ; 
 he stooped and picked it up and read : 
 
 " Thy mother sanctions ; meet him in the garden." 
 " The Lady Jane," he murmured, and led his Grace to 
 her mother.
 
 PART V 
 GLORY AND DEATH" 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE VISIT TO THE TOWER 
 
 FIRST for two years atTremeer, the happy married hfe 
 of Grace and Bevill Granville began. Then with a small 
 son and a new-born daughter they came to make their 
 home at Stowe, by " the Severn sea." But meanwhile 
 Bevill had been called to represent his county in Parlia- 
 ment, and had become, like his friend Sir John Eliot, 
 a staunch upholder of the " liberties, franchises, privileges 
 and jurisdiction of Parliament, the ancient and undoubted 
 birthright and inheritance of the subjects of England." 
 His words are recorded in the Journals of the House. 
 
 " With prudent management of his estate and paternal 
 tenderness for his servants, by a most courteous and 
 respectful behaviour to all the gentlemen around him," 
 did Bevill maintain the credit and dignity of his family ; 
 no less than by strict attention to the i)ublic service did 
 he win the esteem and cfjufidence of his fellow countrymen. 
 And so the years rolled on, and the gathering storms loomed 
 big and black on the political horizon. Scotland was in 
 revolt. Neither at home nor abroad did the affairs of 
 England prosper. The plague decimated the towns, foreign 
 expeditions ended in disaster.
 
 304 Sir Bevill 
 
 October in the year 1632 was at its prime of brown, red 
 and gold when Bevill and his wife set out for London 
 attended by Anthony Payne and his wife, known to 
 us as Lizzie Paschowe, intent on seeing their old 
 friend Sir John Eliot in the Tower. The day after 
 their arrival Bevill sought his friend Delamere, and for 
 hours discussed the possibility of obtaining access to Sir 
 John. 
 
 " Impossible, my dear impulsive friend, utterly impos- 
 sible. Sir William Balfour, the Governor of the Tower, 
 is a perfect lynx. I have tried him with money, I have 
 tempted him with liquor, and of the best, and he will 
 drink the one and accept the other, hke the careful Scot 
 he is, but he won't give me a chance to see our dear friend." 
 
 There was a loud knock and Anthony entered in com- 
 pany once more with Tite the Varmint. 
 
 " Liz have got a projec, sir, and her wishes me to bring 
 it up. Her got it along o' seein' this here Tite. I wer up 
 to the Tower a-conversin' weth one o* them hoblideers, 
 big men they be, wen up comes Tite. ' Bless my soul an' 
 body,' says the man, 'if yii tu bean't like them as they 
 tells of, Gog an' a small chap[caaled Xit, as were once 'pon a 
 time in the Tower.' Well, I thought no more on't, an' I 
 telled Liz. An' Liz says to me, ' Say that agin,' an' I ses 
 it, an' her runned in to my lady, an' they ses, ' Bring in 
 Tite,' an' I brought in the little varmint. Then Liz says, 
 ' Does that there guvner of the Tower believe in ghostises ? * 
 ' Dunno,' I ses, an' she ses, ' Find out,' an' I ses, ' Fer why ? ' 
 ' Do what yii'm told,' ses she. ' What d'yii mean ?' ses 
 L ' This here,' ses she, * I'd like to make ghostises of yii tii 
 to frighten the Guvner out of his life, an' let in Lady Grace 
 and the master.' So I've come to ask your honour what 
 yii thinks of it." 
 
 Bevill heard a chuckle, and turned round to see his
 
 The Visit to the Tower 305 
 
 friend the herald jump from his chair to perform a pirou- 
 ette, and dance across the room. 
 
 " Grand," he said. " Great woman that ! " 
 " Her's mine," quoth Tony, " and her's not great, her's 
 smaal." 
 
 " Splendid," shouted Delamere. " I have it all in a 
 flash of lightning. Sir William is the very man. A true 
 Scot. Believes in all kinds of spirits, black spirits and 
 white. Gad, if he saw a real Magog in the Tower he would 
 faint. I believe it can be done, and I am the man to do 
 it." 
 
 " It seems to me rather a wild scheme," said Bevill. 
 " However could you manage the costumes ?" 
 
 " My dear sir, that is child's play to me. I have secured 
 the good offices of the gentleman next in command to the 
 Lieutenant of the Tower, and only get Sir William out of 
 the way, or frighten him to death, and the thing can be 
 done. I can easily lay my hand on costumes of every kind 
 without going a hundred paces from where we sit." 
 
 Little by little he planned every dress and every detail : 
 made it live and move before Bevill' s eyes. 
 
 It would take him a week or more to arrange, and mean- 
 while Sir John Eliot must be informed of what they were 
 preparing to do. This was accomi)lished at last by getting 
 a message conveyed to him by the artist who was then 
 taking that wonderful likeness which Eliot bade him paint 
 exactly as he was, that his friends might see again the 
 familiar face as the last few months had changed it, and 
 that his family might keep the picttire on the walls at Port 
 Eliot, " As a i)erpetu.al memorial of his hatred of tyranny." 
 The artist for a consideration undertook to convey to 
 Eliot a pa|)er wraj»pcd round his brushes, and by this 
 means eluded the inquisitorial curiosity of his gaolers. 
 Verily the heart aches now as we look on that por. 
 
 u
 
 3o6 Sir Bevill 
 
 trait finished but a few hours before his death in the 
 Tower. To quote the words of Forster : 
 
 "There is the same refinement of expression in this 
 picture and in the one painted four years ago ; the 
 same shape of features, breadth of forehead, width of 
 the upper hp, and grave decision and composure of 
 mouth ; in both the same full bright eyes, in whose 
 luminous depths seem to lie the force and true tender- 
 ness of his character. But the florid colour of his man- 
 hood had changed in the later picture to the ghastly 
 paleness of death. The cheeks are worn and haggard ; 
 and the hair and beard, arranged in the earlier portrait 
 with scrupulous care, are in the later cut close, neglected, 
 and dishevelled." 
 
 It was night before he could venture to read Bevill' s 
 missive. The eager, yet sad, longing look that brightened 
 his face told the depths of joy that raised for a few moments 
 the spirits of the dying man. 
 
 " It is like himself," he murmured, " ever ready to risk 
 life or liberty for a friend ; but to bring that fair wife of 
 his ! Ah, it is too much to hope for. A look into those 
 quiet, honest, innocent eyes once more would give me a 
 foretaste of heaven. It is no faithlessness to thee, Rhada- 
 gund, to long for the touch of her soft hand to mind me of 
 thine, of thee whom I fain would meet again by the mercy 
 of that so good God and Saviour by whom we are, by whom 
 we have all things we possess or hope for." 
 
 " In three nights' time," wrote Bevill in conclusion, 
 " we'll tent the plan you wot of," 
 
 So vast and numerous were the courts and surroundings 
 of the chamber where Eliot lay that on the appointed even- 
 ing it was with small difficulty that Anthony and Tite 
 secreted themselves without being observed in the end of 
 the unlit passage. Lizzie had gained admittance and kept
 
 The Visit to the Tower 307 
 
 the guard occupied with a weird tale of witchcraft, on 
 which she enlarged, and to which she made additions of 
 such force and vividness that the imaginations of her hearers 
 were filled with awe and horror at her recitals. Sir William 
 Balfour had been dining with a friend in the Tower, and 
 passed by the group of three big soldiers deep in conversation 
 with this pretty little woman from the west country. 
 He paused to hear the words delivered in a clear but 
 hoarse whisper : 
 
 " And she had the second sight. Oh, 'twas wonderful ! 
 Amazing to hear her tell of storm and wreck and bare 
 corpses lying stark on the rocks. And then to find them 
 there !" 
 
 " What's that mistress, anent the second sight ? " de- 
 manded Sir William. 
 
 " I were only telling of an old woman whom I knew. Sir 
 William, poor soul, thrown into the water for a witch, and 
 then burned to death. Oh, the screeches ! Oh, the horror 
 of that day ! " — after a pause — " And then to think that 
 she should come again ! Drowned like, half burned, the 
 blood seeming to pour over her limbs ; and she would moan 
 round the pool where they half drowned her, and point — 
 Ah ! What's that ? " 
 
 Lizzie screamed, pointing with her forcfmgcr to the end 
 of the dark passage : " I swear I saw a ghost." 
 
 The men all turned towards the spot, white as sheets. 
 One grumbled that his time was up and slunk away. The 
 other two stood gazing, their knees shaking under them, as 
 a faint light shone from out the darkest corner far off, and 
 a giant form seemed to pass across it for a moment and dis- 
 apix-ar. Lizzie made believe to faint, threw up licr hands, 
 shut her eyes and staggered back. The two l)ig men 
 took to their heels and fairly bolted. Sir William put 
 out Ills arms to catch the falling maiden, but she recovered
 
 3o8 Sir Bevill 
 
 herself, and turning to him, muttered in an awe-struck 
 voice : 
 
 " 'Twas not her ! 'Twas a giant ! O Lord save us !" 
 
 " Come with me, girl, and tell me the tale of that woman 
 o' second sight ; never heed yon thing, ghostie or no 
 ghostie." Sir William had been dining well, and was an 
 ardent admirer of beauty. 
 
 " Nay, good sir. Nay, I must not tarry. My man will 
 be waiting for me. Ah ! — Ah I — there is the ghost again ; 
 'tis an evil night ! Ah ! there — look — there are two of 
 them ! " The light shone again for an instant, and the 
 figure of a dwarf with an awful head looming large and 
 hideous, passed through the light and disappeared. Sir 
 William drew his sword, and made a step towards the end of 
 passage. 
 
 " Oh, sir ! dear sir, don't 'ee go near, 'tis awesome 'an 
 'tis All Hallowe'en ! I would not care, but they say the 
 dead walk this night, and there may be so many murdered 
 men about these dungeons." Then as the light shone 
 dimly and red once more, she uttered a soul-piercing scream 
 and fled, leaving the frightened Lieutenant of the Tower 
 alone. For a moment all was still, and then a deep un- 
 earthly groan reverberated through the vaulted passages. 
 Sir William fled, gained his rooms and locked the doors. 
 
 A few moments after he thought he heard the sound of 
 feet ; yes, his hearing was as acute as ever, still more acute, 
 perhaps, from fear. 
 
 " That is no ghost, at any rate." So saying he drew his 
 sword, opened the door, and passed again into the passage. 
 In the same far distant recess shone the red light ; as he 
 looked the colour slowly changed to green, and the hideous 
 dwarf appeared, not now alone ; after him strode the 
 giant with his sword drawn. The dwarf turned, the sword 
 swept down, and the hideous head of the dwarf fell to the
 
 The Visit to the Tower 309 
 
 ground ; the body with outstretched arms fell after it ; 
 the hands seized it and tucked it under one arm, while the 
 other hand drew a long bright dagger which gleamed in the 
 light. The giant had turned, and right into his back the 
 hideous dwarf struck the shining blade and in a moment all 
 was dark. Again a deep horrid groan resounded. Sir 
 William was no coward, but he felt as if his heart, which 
 had been throbbing like a drum, ceased to beat. He turned, 
 and there before him coming down the cross-passage was 
 a sight more awesome still ! 
 
 A lady of stately mien, draped in the habit of near a hun- 
 dred years agone, moved slowly towards him. There was no 
 apparent motion of the feet, she seemed to ghde rather than 
 walk. Her face was that of a corpse, deathly pale, her eyes 
 large and dull. In both hands she held beneath her chin 
 a white cloth stained with blood. Behind her walked an 
 executioner, the upper part of his face concealed by a 
 black mask with holes for the eyes, and over his shoulder he 
 carried the headman's axe, bloodstained. Behind him, 
 again, crept, rather than walked, another man, his hands 
 raised in entreaty, his white lips uttering continually the 
 words — " Jane — sweet Jane." Just as the lady turned 
 towards the stairs she paused, stretched out a bare white 
 arm and hand, and j)ointing at Sir William uttered in a low 
 unearthly voice the one word: " Murderer!" 
 
 The Governor staggered back and fell, striking his head 
 against the wall, and the procession passed on. The giant, 
 and the dwarf with his head imdcr his arm, came down the 
 passage, and followed uj) the stairs. 
 
 " Keep just beiiind me, Tony," said Dclamere. " Wc 
 may not be wanted, but we will make all safe. Sir William 
 won't trouble us for a bit." 
 
 The ghost of the Lady Jane Grey, alias Grace Granville, 
 and the headsman, her husband, passed swiftly up the
 
 3 1 o Sir Bevill 
 
 stairs and entered Eliot's room. Taking both her hands in 
 his he kissed them, and pressed his hps against her cheek. 
 Then he embraced the dear friend of his youth, and sank 
 exhausted on his couch. 
 
 i " Once more, sweet lady, I greet thee, and then fare well for 
 a while, aye, for a while, a little while ; did He not say it ? 
 ' Again a little while and ye shall not see Me because I go to 
 the Father.' Surely I go to His Father and my Father. And 
 I know not whether I most long to go or desire to stay to 
 speak out all that is in my heart to England." He paused 
 and looked up at his two friends ; then, rising slowly and 
 with evident difficulty and pain, he grasped Bevill's hand, 
 and looked into his eyes, those honest eyes. 
 
 " How pale thou art, dear John, we must take thee away 
 and fill thee with Cornish air and Cornish cream ; 'twill 
 soon revive thee. Wilt come with us to-night ? The 
 boat awaits us on the river, we will pass down below Graves- 
 end by the morning, and a coaster that I wot of will take us 
 to Plymouth before thy absence is discovered." 
 
 " Nay, dear friend, it cannot be, I am offered up for 
 my country. For life or death I must remain and be found 
 watching. You know, dearest of friends, how little I have 
 lost my patience in the length of all this sufferance, wherein 
 I here profess, and my God knoweth no thoughts have 
 possessed me of personal injury, nor hath any circumstance 
 been able to move me as it might import a prejudice to the 
 public, a prejudice to Parliament, or a prejudice to the king- 
 dom, These have been all my considerations. Nor can 
 I now, in view of these, accept liberty but as a right, lest 
 I should in my person wrong that which I am defending.' ' 
 
 " True, dear John, we know well that you contend for 
 the rights and liberties of the Parliament, which the King 
 and his counsellors have despised. But for the sake of 
 your lifci and the part which that life will enable you to
 
 The Visit to the Tower 3 1 1 
 
 venture and uphold, we desire you to escape from this 
 fatal bondage." .^ ; - 
 
 " My friend, a greater than we has said : * He that 
 seeketh to save his life shall lose it.' By death, if it be 
 His will, the fight for liberty may perchance be more surely 
 won than by life. Go, dear brave friends, while you may 
 depart in safety, lest you incur a too great danger. For 
 me, I am faint — my son will care for me ; he is in the next 
 chamber. By his Majesty's favour I am allowed this 
 consolation." He lay back on the couch, the grey pallor 
 as of death overspreading his countenance. Bevill called 
 to his son John, who speedily came and bathed his father's 
 face. 
 
 'Twas but too cleaily seen that the end was not far off. 
 Sir John opened his eyes and faintly smiled, raising his 
 hand as if to bid them farewell. They both knelt down 
 and kissed his check, and, hardly restraining their tears 
 till they had left the chamber, took their way down the 
 stairs and through the now deserted passages to the boat. 
 There was a twinkle in the eyes of the Deputy-Lieutenant 
 of the Tower as he appeared for a moment and whispered 
 to the herald : 
 
 " Sir William has scarce regained his senses, and the 
 sentries are making their best haste to be drunk and forget 
 their fright. Farewell, my Lady Ghost." 
 
 Neither Grace nor Bevill had spirits left to feel a spark 
 of mirth at the success of their masking, but the little herald 
 lay down in the boat and literally shook with su{)presscd 
 laughter till he was a quarter of a mile from the Tower. 
 When he arose he shouted like a maniac, till the very water- 
 men ceased to row, as they caught tjie infection of his 
 merriment. 
 
 " Pray thee, good friend, moderate thy mirth, or we shall 
 spend the night on the river," said Bevill, " and our thanks
 
 312 
 
 Sir Bevill 
 
 for thy skill will be turned to sorrow for our lack of 
 slumber," 
 
 " Oh, give me time, and give me drink," murmured 
 Dclamere as he sank down again in the boat. " Drink, 
 drink, drink I must or I shall die. Oh, to see that yellow- 
 faced devil turn green, and stagger back and knock his 
 ugly head against the wall. Would he had knocked it off ! 
 And to know that to-morrow he will not dare say a word 
 about it all, lest he should betray himself a coward. 'Twas 
 worth a thousand crowns. Gad, sirs, I would not ha' 
 missed it for the world. I go home to drink his health." 
 
 After this last sad visit to their dear friend in the Tower, 
 Bevill and his wife returned to their Cornish home, and were 
 shortly followed by the not unexpected news of Eliot's 
 death, which filled them with sorrow. Another grief was 
 added ; the kindly little herald, so clever and witty, so 
 reckless and careless of himself, scarce recovered from the 
 orgie in which he indulged, consequent on the success of 
 his masque in the Tower, when he was seized with the 
 ague, which in a few days ended his life. Lord Exmoor 
 heard of his illness, and was with him to the last, receiving 
 from him as a dying bequest those papers which in after 
 years enriched the Heralds College of England. The 
 Lady Jane, who had not fulfilled her threat of an early 
 grave, vied with her father in caring for their dying friend, 
 and was deeply touched and grieved at the untimely 
 end of so bright and promising a career. Probably few, as 
 she did, sounded the depths of human kindness and even 
 self-sacrificing love which lay in the heart of one who had 
 no enemy on earth except himself.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 HOW RICHARD WON A WIFE 
 
 THE soldier, who in the early part of the year 1628 
 entered the apartmen+s in Whitehall allotted to the 
 great Duke of Buckingham, would with difficulty have 
 been recognised by those who, a dozen years before, had 
 known Richard Granville, the unscrupulous deviser of mis- 
 chief seldom harmless, too often fraught with malice: a soldier 
 now, every inch, in mien and bearing, and an equal in personal 
 beauty with him who came forward to greet him so heartily. 
 The great blue eyes were perhaps a shade too light, with a 
 roundness that gave to his face an expression of wonder. 
 The corners of his mouth spoke a sense of humour which 
 might be bitter, and of power which might degenerate 
 into cruelty. Unlike his brother Bevill, whose figure was 
 square and thick-set, Richard's shoulders drooped, but his 
 back was straight and powerful. Audacity and courage 
 were writ large on every feature and every movement. 
 
 " I am right glad to sec thee, Sir Richard," began 
 Buckingham, under whom he had taken service. " Thou 
 art none the worse for last year's bout. Heavens, man, 
 what a day that was upon the ridge. But for thee and a 
 few others such as George Monk we must all have been 
 swrjit away. I lost a thousand men that day." 
 
 " But for thee, my Lord Duke, not a man had been saved 
 to tell the talc in England. Well, ill over it is, and wliilhcr 
 must we turn to gain the glory wc missed that day ? I long 
 to move again."
 
 3H 
 
 Sir Bevill 
 
 " Dost long ? A word in thine ear. Rochclle shall be 
 relieved before many days are over, and that day's work 
 avenged. Wilt come ? " 
 
 " Ay, right willingly. But, my Lord, my means are 
 small. And when money is needed I care not to hoard it. 
 as perchance your Grace may know." 
 
 " Know it, Richard ! who knows not that thy hand is 
 ever too open to spend all thou hast, and for that matter 
 all that any one else hath, an' thou canst come at it. Ha ! 
 is it not so ? What say you to a wealthy widow and a fair 
 one too ? I could help thee there." 
 
 " I care not, so she be rich and fair." 
 
 " Listen then. Mary, daughter of Sir John Fitz of Fitz- 
 ford in Devon, and widow of Sir Charles Howard, is wealthy 
 and very fair. She hath been a widow for the third time 
 for near six years. What say you to her ? " 
 
 " I know her, at least I can remember her in London 
 when she ran away with Lord Darcey's son, a young fool 
 of fifteen or so, who married her and died shortly after. 
 Yes, she was a pretty child then, what there was of her." 
 
 " She is not much bigger now in size, but greater in 
 pocket, for Sir Charles left her wdl provided. She hath 
 two daughters, and lives mostly in Devon, but she is in 
 London now. Wilt try thy fortune ? " 
 
 " Right willingly, noble sir, with your Grace's good 
 help." 
 
 " She comes to us to-night. Come and sup with us and 
 make the pace as fast as thou canst, for I shall need thee 
 in that of which I told thee." 
 
 At supper Sir Richard appeared in bravest attire. 
 Jewels sparkled on his doublet and fingers. Even the 
 great Duke himself was scarce so resplendent. The King 
 was there and but three others, two ladies and a gentleman- 
 in-waiting.
 
 How RicJiard Won a Wife 315 
 
 His Majesty was very gracious, but after supper soon 
 carried off "George" for a private talk. The Duchess 
 and the other three guests engaged in a game of cards 
 leaving Lady Howard and Sir Richard in a discussion on 
 the beauty of Devonshire. From peaceful Devon and the 
 rocky shore of Cornwall they turned to last year's expedi- 
 tion to Rhc and the disaster at Rochelle. 
 
 " Is it true, Sir Richard," said the lady, " that thou 
 and the Duke stood back to back and literally held the 
 ridge by yourselves?" 
 
 " Nay, madam, that story has gained somewhat in the 
 telling. True, we were together for a while In the rear 
 and had to keep back the foe ; our plkemen and musketeers 
 stood by us well. His Grace is courage itself, and he was 
 pleased to say that I was of use to him that day. But, 
 madam, mere valour ! what is it ? We have it in common 
 with many a man who only trails a pike. That which we 
 need," and he lowered his voice, " is the brain to conceive, 
 and the will and power to execute. In these days we have 
 no leader of men." 
 
 She looked up quickly, with her bright sparkling eyes 
 and quick eager expression. 
 
 " A leader ? Yes. And Sir Richard ? " 
 
 " Thou art quick, my lady, to catch a thought. I deny it 
 not. It was in my mind that had I the chance I could even 
 lead." 
 
 The perfect self-confidence of the tone spoke the absolute 
 belief in his own power which possessed him. DiHidcnce 
 was to him an unknown quality. He paused as the lady 
 dropped her eyes Ix-fore his ardent gaze. 
 
 " My dear lady," he resumed, " to be that which I 
 could be, that for which my nature and the few gifts I possess 
 intended me, I need two things, and what they are I must 
 not tell thee now. Hast ever noticed those two pictures
 
 3 1 6 Sir Bevill 
 
 in the anteroom. They are worth more than a passing 
 look." 
 
 Lady Howard rose and accompanied him beyond the 
 folding doors. On either side of them were full-length 
 portraits, the one of King James, the other of George 
 Villiers, as he was when first the beauty of his person 
 attracted his royal master's notice. Richard gazed in 
 silence at the picture of the handsome stripling. 
 
 " Yes," he murmured half aloud, " that was his only 
 property, and with it he has risen to be great, a statesman, 
 a soldier, a leader. A statesman ? He has set England 
 against not only himself but the throne ! A leader ? 
 I grant his courage, it is perfect — but a leader ? " He 
 paused again and his gaze upon her upturned face was 
 more ardent still. 
 
 The lady blushed as she met that gaze and asked de- 
 murely : " And what may the two things be that Sir Richard 
 needs ? Doth he despair because the great Duke's beauty 
 may be thought to more than rival his ? " 
 
 " No, lady, I have no fear on that score," he replied 
 with perfect complacency. 
 
 " Courage ? " she continued. " We all know he hath 
 that." 
 
 " My lady, I will even tell thee. I need the love of a 
 home, and I need the wealth which should strengthen me 
 when abroad. In one word, dear lady, I need thee. Wilt 
 share my future ? 'Twill not be an inglorious one. 
 True, I am a younger son, but I have not only my grand- 
 sire's name, but beyond any of my generation have I his 
 spirit and his controlUng power. I place myself, my all, 
 at thy feet. Thou art very fair, fairer to me, I swear it, 
 than wealth or fame. My heart hath gone out to thy 
 keeping. Dearest, fairest of women, return it not, but give 
 me thine."
 
 How Richard IVon a IVife 317 
 
 Kneeling, he took her hand and raised it to his Hps. 
 The wilUngncss of her response added fuel to the fire, and 
 impulse to his very audacious wooing. He rose and clasped 
 her in his arms. 
 
 " Lady, I claim thee, as thy slave I ask the slave's reward, 
 the fetters that shall bind me to thee for ever." 
 
 And Mary Lady Howard was won.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE THANKS OF THE KING 
 
 THE life of Bevill and his wife at Stowe was one of 
 home love, work and enterprise. Children were 
 increasing around them, and all was happiness save 
 that the health of their eldest boy, Richard, gave them 
 grave reason for anxiety. 
 
 The grand old house, which had fallen in parts to decay 
 during the lifetime of Sir Bernarde, resounded with the 
 laughter of children, and these not only sons and daughters 
 of the house. Many a lad came there from other Cornish 
 homes, to learn with the children of Bevill and the Lady 
 Grace not only the rudiments of Latin and mathematics, 
 but some of the lessons of that noble life of which their 
 host was so true an example. And what an ideal friend 
 was Bevill Granville ! To him Edward Seymour, grandson 
 of the Protector, Duke of Somerset, could write such 
 words as these, which may show the esteem in which he 
 was widely held : 
 
 " Dear Brother* forgive and thinke on any occasion to 
 summon me thither to serve you, for I cannot long live 
 without your society, in which there is so much cheerful- 
 ness as it sweetens all misfortunes, and makes them none 
 where you are." 
 
 Reluctantly he resigned the joys of that beautiful and 
 most worthy home life at the call of duty. In vain his 
 friend. Sir John Trelawney, pleaded with him for the sake 
 of wife and children not to risk so precious a hfe. " I
 
 The Thanks of the King 319 
 
 am not without the consideration," he wrote in reply, " of 
 my wife and family (as you so lovingly advise), and as for 
 her I must acknowledge she hath ever drawn so evenly in 
 her yoke with me, as she hath never prest before or hung 
 back or behind me, nor even opposed or resisted my will. 
 And yet truly I have not in this, or anything else en- 
 deavoured to walke in the way of power with her but of 
 reason ; and though her love will submit to either yet 
 truly my respect will not suffer me to urge her with power 
 unless I can convince her reason." 
 
 At his own expense he raised a troop of horse, and joined 
 the King's forces on their way to Scotland. The royal army 
 assembled at York, and then marched to Newcastle and 
 on to Berwick-on-Tweed, where the King found himself 
 confronted by the Scotch army under Lesley. 
 
 Ill-found, and still worse led, Charles's army, except 
 for some of the cavalry, such as Granville's troop, was 
 more like a rabble than a disciplined force. Retreating 
 to the Tyne, which they were unable to hold, and where 
 Bevill so distinguished himself as to gain the honour of 
 knighthood from the King, they hurried into Yorkshire, 
 and, after the great assembly of peers at York, and a patched- 
 up peace, Sir Bevill Granville retired again to his Cornish 
 home. 
 
 But not for long. First in the Short Parliament as 
 Member for Launceston, and, in the following year, in the 
 " Long Parliament " as Member for the county, he took 
 his part in those stirring days which heralded in the terror 
 of the Great Rebellion. His innate loyalty, strengthened 
 by his personal attachment to Charles, wiio had shown 
 him much favour, made him rebel against the harsh and 
 unscrupulous proceedings instituted in Parliament against 
 Lord Strafford. Earnestly as he desired the welfare of 
 his country, he could not believe that the wished-for end
 
 320 .S» Bcvill 
 
 could be gained either by cruelty or injustice, and most 
 certainly not by disloyalty to the Crown, and for this reason 
 he pleaded, though for the most part pleaded in vain, with 
 his friends to vote against the Bill of Attainder against 
 Strafford. 
 
 Gentleness and mercy were left out of sight, and only 
 red vengeance stalked unchecked through the land. Open 
 war between the King and Parliament brought the Knight 
 of Stowe into the field on the Royal side, and trained bands 
 of Cornwall gathered at his word. At Braddon Down, at 
 Windmill Hill by Launceston, at Liskeard, and supremely 
 at Stratton, the gallant Cornishmen responded to the call 
 and added victory to victory. Fighting under the com- 
 mand of Sir Ralph Hopton as his general. Sir Bevill dis- 
 tinguished himself so notably both in council and in the 
 field that he received a letter from King Charles which he 
 kept with him during life. 
 
 "To the Right Trusty and Well-beloved, Sir Bevill 
 Granvill at our Army in Cornwall. 
 
 " CHARLES R. 
 
 " Right Trusty and Well-beloved wee greet you well. Wee 
 have seen your letter to Endymion Porter, Our Servant. 
 But your whole conduct of Our Affairs in the West doth 
 speak your Zeal to Our Service and the Public Good in so 
 full a Measure as Wee rest abundantly satisfy'd with the 
 Testimony thereof. Your labours and your Expenses Wee 
 are graciously Sensible of, and Our Royal Care hath been 
 to ease you in all that Wee could. What hath fallen short 
 of our Princely Purposes and your Expectations Wee 
 know you will attribute to the great malignity of the 
 Rebellion Wee had and have here to wrestle withall. And 
 We know well how effectually a diversion of that mis- 
 chievous strength you have made from Us at your own
 
 The Thanks of the King 32 1 
 
 hazzards. Wee assure you Wee have all tender sense of 
 the hardness you have endured and the state wherein 
 you stand. Wee shall not fail to procure you what speedy 
 relief may be. In the mean space We send you Our most 
 hearty thanks for some encouragement and assurances on 
 the word of a Gracious Prince that (God enabhng us) Wee 
 shall so reflect upon your faithfull Services as you and yours 
 shall have cause to acknowledge Our Bounty and Favours. 
 And so Wee bid you heartily farewell. 
 
 Given at Our Court at Oxford the 24th. March 1645 {sic) 
 
 After these signal victories over the Parliamentarian 
 army under Lord Stamford, peace was restored for a 
 time to Cornwall, and the Lady Grace returned to Stowe, 
 which she had left at the approach of the enemy. Her 
 eldest son, Richard, had died a year ago, and John, godson 
 of Sir John Eliot, the eldest living son, was with her now, 
 as well as the younger children. 
 
 For a few short days, after taking order for the safety 
 of the county, Bevill rested in his home, endeavouring 
 with all the sweetness of his loving nature to cheer and 
 encourage the wife who for nearly a quarter of a century 
 had shared his every thought, forestalled his wishes, and 
 aided all his schemes for the welfare of the people, the 
 dear half of his soul, the comfort and joy of his life. Grace 
 was never weary of proving to her husband by word and 
 act her entire devotion to him, and would i)ray in these 
 most touching words : " God give me life no longer than I 
 am yours in all constancy." Only a few short days were 
 theirs together before the last fatal journey. As tiicy sat 
 together in the warm summer evening, looking down across 
 the flower-beds of the garden below, a whinny from the 
 stable told that Anthony Payne had just finished dressing 
 down the master's horse, and had but now carried to him 
 
 X
 
 322 Sir Bevill 
 
 and his own cob Sampson their ample measure of corn for 
 the night. Arm in arm, they wandered to the stable 
 to look at the bay grandson of old Vulcan, who glanced 
 back over his shoulder with a cry of joy at his expected 
 feed ; his long lean head and short pointed ears, so close 
 together, told a tale of speed that was not belied by the 
 drooping quarters, and thigh muscles that bulged out 
 above his clean, bony hocks. Only his full eye and flat- 
 sinewed forelegs showed the strain of Barbary blood ; the 
 rest was the pure old English breed. Lacking the strain 
 of Barb, by his side stood, short and square, a castle of 
 strength, his half-brother Sampson, fit to carry the load of 
 Anthony's seven foot six and three hundred pounds weight. 
 After a word of greeting to Anthony and a caress for Bay 
 Falcon, they turned back to the house. 
 
 " And must you away to-morrow, sweetheart ? " said 
 Grace. 
 
 The children were all asleep in bed save John, the eldest, 
 a noble boy of sixteen, who stood leaning his hands on the 
 table by his mother's side. 
 
 " Prithee, Jack, get to thy bed, lad," said Sir Bevill to 
 his eldest son. " Thou shalt see me off to-morrow morning, 
 and, if thou wilt, ride with me to Torrington." 
 
 " Nay, father, I would go further than that. Anthony 
 says that few can do better with the small sword than I. 
 Sweet mother, beg my father to let me stay by his side. 
 The King shall not find a truer heart than mine in the field ; 
 and I am strong now. Feel my arm, mother, and I stand 
 as tall as father. No, sir, I am no match for you in skill 
 and counsel, but I can fight the King's enemies. And sure, 
 dear mother, I can write word to thee of my father's doings 
 and of the high esteem in which all hold him in the 
 army " 
 
 " Enough, my boy, enough. Thou art not prepared to
 
 TJie Thanks of the King 323 
 
 go, get thee to bed now, and if thy mother can spare thee, 
 thou shalt bring on those recruits that I expect from Mary 
 Week, with Master Pokinghorne. Now, not a word more. 
 I have much to say to thy mother. God bless thee." 
 
 " Wilt really permit the boy to go to the wars ? Oh, 
 Bevill, he is but a boy, and — and — my heart will break if 
 ought happen to either of you. His going doubles my 
 
 care." 
 
 " Aye, sweetheart, that is what I feared. Duty to my 
 King and love for thee tear my heart in two, for they pull 
 counter-ways. Never before," he continued, " have I 
 felt so full of care. No, not even on that night on the 
 Tyne four years agone. Oh, how miserable was the 
 leading ! No disciphne, no fear of God. The King, all 
 goodness, but too weak to hold his own better resolves. 
 What a night that was ! Old Lesley, encamped over 
 against us, just where a real soldier, had we but one in 
 command, would have turned his flank and beaten him 
 back to Scotland — but — ay, but our men were half-hearted 
 and mixed with traitors. I had word — did I ever tell thee ? 
 Nay, I know I did not. I had word that some fifty or so 
 were starting to join Lesley's Presbyterians that night. 
 I asked, and had leave to stop them. It was a night ! 
 black as pitch, a morass on our right. Ten men only with 
 Anthony could I get. They had the start of us and were 
 marching for the bridge. I led the gallop on that big bay 
 stallion, Falcon, Anthony at my stirrup ; not a star ! Ah, 
 how the good horse laid his head almost on the ground 
 and gallojK'd. A wild north-caster in our teeth. Wc 
 caught them as they joined an outpost of Lesley's ; saw 
 them by the light of the camp-fire. One rush and all was 
 over. The cowards fell to their knees in fear, Lesley's 
 men fought like devils, but they were only ten to our ten, 
 and every man fell. We droru the fifty back like sheep.
 
 324 Sir B evil I 
 
 Ah ! that night, I never told thee, love, how close I went 
 to the other world. It was Tony's arm that saved my 
 head." 
 
 " God bless him, dearest. What has he not given up 
 for others ? And not even for his wife Lizzie would he 
 give up his place by thy side at Braddon Down, or Stratton 
 Hill. He is true as he is brave and strong. Ah, that fight 
 at Stratton ! How my poor heart jumped to hear the 
 news of that day and thy peril. And now — and now — must 
 thou really go on to Exeter, and thence God only knows how 
 far from me the war will carry thee on. I sicken with 
 fear." 
 
 " Nay, love, you must not give way, you are my strength. 
 Like the fabled hero of old who gained fresh power from 
 Mother Earth, so do I gain fresh courage and strength from 
 thee to do my duty. Remember you not those words of 
 my Lord Bacon which we read together some years agone ? 
 * Men that too much love themselves waste the Publique — 
 be true to thyself, as thou be not false to others, specially 
 to thy King and Country.' So, God helping me, will I be 
 true to my King to the last drop of my blood. 'Tis all in 
 God's righteous hands, dear, but to me it seemeth that it is 
 to be by our Western men, and specially by those of 
 Cornwall, who are good enough to follow and love my 
 command, that our noble King is to be maintained on his 
 throne. Let not our hearts grudge him our best." 
 
 So on, far into the night, they sat conversing of many 
 things. For to Bevill Granville nothing was small and 
 unimportant. The men, their wives and children, he 
 cared for, and appointed their provision ; the garden, 
 the trees, the horses and cattle, all were reviewed in this 
 his last talk with her who had held up both his hands, 
 whether in peace or war, ever the same, sweet, fair, and 
 holy ; handing on to generations unborn the heritage of
 
 The Thmiks of the King 325 
 
 home duty, home love, and self-sacrifice. Little known 
 to the outer world, she lived her beautiful life for those 
 she loved on earth — mother, husband, and children — lived 
 it with God in a piety that was as ardent as it was void 
 of pretence.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A GRANVILLE ! A GRANVILLE ! 
 
 THROUGH Torrington next morning Bevill, with his 
 son John, who had gained his point to accompany 
 his father, and Anthony Payne, made his way to- 
 wards Chard, where on the second day he found Sir Ralph 
 Hopton encamped, with three thousand foot and nearly a 
 thousand horse. Loud were the shouts of greeting as the 
 Cornishmen saw their most trusted leader enter the camp. 
 
 Bevill found the General surrounded by a group of 
 Cornish officers, on whose faces were unmistakable signs 
 of annoyance and anger. 
 
 " How now, Nicholas Slanning ! " cried Sir Bevill, as he 
 dismounted and gave bay Falcon to Anthony ; " hath 
 peace been declared, and there is no more fighting for 
 thee, that thou lookest as if a thundercloud had settled 
 on thy brow ? What, Jack Trevanion, how fares it with 
 thee, man ? " 
 
 " It is just this," said Sir Ralph Hopton, courteously. 
 " You must know, most worshipful sir, that of all the 
 forces which I have the honour to command none have 
 more distinguished themselves than the trained bands from 
 Cornwall. These, under their own officers, you and your 
 good fxiends, Sir Nicholas Slanning, Colonel Trevanion, 
 Sir John Berkeley, and others, have done noble work, 
 recognised by His Majesty, and acknowledged by all. 
 On our arrival at Chard we have been met by Prince 
 Maurice, the Marquess of Hertford, and other soldiers
 
 ''A Granville! A Granville!'' 327 
 
 of the Royal forces, who have taken over the command 
 of all by the Prince's orders. The Marquess has taken 
 upon himself the supreme command, has appointed a 
 Lieutenant-General under him, and other Royal officers, 
 leaving out of sight not only yourself but all those who 
 have done so much in the past, and are mainly to be 
 relied upon to lead our Cornish levies in the future. Now, 
 my brothers," continued the great General, perhaps the 
 most skilful in the King's army, " this is a matter of little 
 count to us, who would all loyally serve our master in 
 the ranks ; but my fear, and the fear of these my noble 
 comrades, is, lest the troops which we have led to such 
 signal victories should, seeing that we whom they trust 
 are accounted unworthy to still lead them, refuse to be 
 commanded by others. And, sans doubt, the danger is 
 that they may choose to return to their homes." 
 
 " Most worthy General, forgive me if I do not share 
 your fear," replied Sir Bevill. " If I know my Cornishmen, 
 it will be our fault if they refuse to be led by the noble 
 Marquess and his Highness Prince Maurice." 
 
 " And curse him for a drunken hot-headed fool," added 
 Trevanion under his breath. Bevill heard, but unheeding, 
 continued : 
 
 " We shall be plain captains and colonels, it is true, 
 but wc shall be with our men — nay, even nearer than if 
 we had high commands assigned to us. With all due 
 deference to you, noble sir, I counsel that with cheerful 
 countenances we take whatever part is assigned to us, 
 and, going among our men right joyfully, encourage them 
 to continue the good work so well begun in Cornwall, 
 and clear this Somersetshire of rebels." 
 
 " Bevill," cried Slanning, " thou art ever the same ; 
 nothing daunts thee, nothing can tame thy face from 
 smiles. Thou wouldst look down the throat of cannon
 
 328 Sir Bevill 
 
 and laugh, I verily believe. If our most worthy General 
 will agree, and he it is who is the one chiefly slighted, 
 we will all follow thy sage advice, and smile upon these 
 our new masters, and, please God, lead our Cornish lads to 
 victory as we did on Stratton Hill." 
 
 There was a loud shout of applause at these stirring 
 words, and never once by word or act did Bevill and his 
 friends show any sign that they had been treated with scant 
 courtesy. 
 
 It was mid June or rather midsummer when the united 
 force left Chard. Sir Ralph at the request of the Marquess 
 and Prince Maurice had reassumed the chief command ; 
 for they were no little assured and pleased by the readiness 
 of the Cornish officers to agree to any position that was 
 allotted to them. In high spirits the march began. They 
 passed rapidly through Taunton, and skirting the Mendip 
 hills, which lay to their left, in a few days reached Wells 
 without a sight of the enemy. Here Waller's scouts ap- 
 peared in view, and after an evening skirmish, in which they 
 were driven back, the army halted. 
 
 Late that night Anthony came to his master's quarters 
 in a state of wrathful excitement. He said he had just 
 lain down after tending the horses when he was roused 
 by the gypsy Clark, who was in Bevill's regiment, bid- 
 ding him come quickly, as there was a light in the shed 
 where he had stabled the Falcon and Sampson. He went 
 at once and found a man inside putting a saddle on the 
 Falcon ; as the door opened the man turned and Tony 
 believed that he recognised in him Ben Dorney, who had 
 been flogged years ago in Exeter for stopping Master 
 Paschowe ; as the fellow turned, the Falcon had lashed 
 out at him with his heels, but only grazed his leg. Dorney 
 had a stout stick in his left hand and with this he gave the 
 horse a violent blow on his hock, then dashing back
 
 "^ Granville! A Granville!'' 329 
 
 tried to escape through the door by Anthony, putting out 
 his Ught before he did so. Anthony had grabbed at, and 
 missed him, but Clark was too quick for the fellow and 
 seized him by the arm. Meanwhile the great horse was 
 loose, and in the dark pushed against Anthony and threw 
 him down and would have trampled him in his pain and 
 rage, but hearing Tony's voice stood still. Outside the 
 shed a fierce fight was going on between the two old com- 
 rades. Clark would not relax his hold, and the other, 
 a more powerful man, rained blows on his face and head ; 
 as Tony shut the door of the shed and came to Clark's 
 assistance the rascal made a desperate effort, striking 
 his antagonist to the ground and freeing himself from his 
 grasp. Before Clark could rise or Anthony reach him he 
 was gone, nor was he seen again that night. That which 
 distressed Anthony most of all, far more than the fellow's 
 escape, was that the noble horse was injured by the blow 
 which the ruffian had struck. The giant had already 
 bathed it and assured his master that he would lead him 
 gently till he was well, while Sir Bevill should ride the cob 
 Sampson. There was nothing more to be done ; Clark 
 was only bruised a little, and vowed that he had given as 
 good change as he had received. Next day poor Falcon 
 was in a sorry plight, and Tony well-nigh brought up the 
 rear with his favourite that he had spent all the morning 
 in bathing. 
 
 It was the fifth day of July when the Royalists came in 
 sight of the entrenched foe that barred their way. Driven 
 from Wells, Waller had retreated on Bath, and posted his 
 whole force on Lansdowne hill. His cannon loomed large 
 and frowning from his breastworks. His formidable 
 cavalry, the new regiment of " the Lobsters" clad entirely 
 in armour, flanked his foot. The artillery was strongly 
 placed, the ground seemed so inaccessible that Hopton
 
 330 Sir Bevill 
 
 began to withdraw his force. He had taken in the diffi- 
 culty of the position and was too wise rashly to court defeat. 
 Then came Waller's mistakes ; a retreating enemy, he 
 thought, gave countenance for a charge of cavalry, and 
 down upon the Royalists thundered his horse. Irresistible 
 was their charge as they swung down the slope and rushed 
 through the broken cavalry opposed to them : but they 
 rushed too far ; Hopton's two thousand horse turned 
 upon them when their charge was spent, and Hazlerigg, 
 who commanded the Lobsters, was forced back with fear- 
 ful loss and pursued to the hill that faced the Lansdowne 
 height. Here again they paused, but the Celtic blood 
 was roused, and the cry, " On, on ! for God and the King ! " 
 rose from six thousand throats. Hastily calling Lord 
 Hertford, Sir Bevill and a few others round him, Hopton 
 pointed out the only way in which the enemy's lines could 
 be assaulted. The Cornish pikes must descend into the 
 valley and mount again through the wood, while the horse 
 on their right held the high road. Bevill received his 
 orders and rode Bay Falcon, who had recovered from the 
 blow which had lamed him for the time, to the head of 
 the Cornish regiment. 
 
 Waller's cavalry charged again down the high road and 
 broke through Hopton's horse, but on their left the Cornish 
 were raging now. " The cannon ! The cannon ! fetch off 
 those cannon ! " they cried, as the round shot hurtled over 
 their heads. " A Granville ! " "A Granville ! " was the 
 shout as Sir Bevill appeared at their head. Then, saving 
 their breath, they began the steep ascent ; each pikeman 
 grasped his pike and set his teeth. The enemy's musket- 
 eers were cleared out of the wood ; the round shot could 
 not touch them now ; and the grim regiment scaled the 
 hill. To the right a stone wall gave them some shelter 
 until their heads appeared over the crest, and then began
 
 "^ Graiiville! A Granville !'' 331 
 
 the din of a hand-to-hand struggle, for down came the 
 enemy's horse. 
 
 "Stand firm to your pikes, men!" shouted Sir Bevill, 
 and the Cornish knelt to receive and beat back the charge. 
 Again they came, and again were repulsed, while the Cornish 
 horse on their flank, having now gained open ground, 
 dashed into their broken ranks. Upwards and still up- 
 wards pressed the lithe Cornishmen. No power on earth 
 could stop them now. Again they paused for breath and 
 to meet another charge of Waller's horse, and nobly they 
 met it. Right up and on to their pikes with the vantage 
 of the hill behind them strained the rebel cavalry, and all 
 in vain. Not a foot would the Cornish yield. Waller's 
 men, broken but unconquered, drew back, leaving many 
 a trooper and many a noble horse on the field. Sir Bevill 
 called Anthony and his son John to his side. 
 
 " Ride quickly to Sir Nicholas Slanning and bid him 
 and Colonel Trevanion slip round to our left flank through 
 the trees and press on while I hold back the centre. They 
 will charge again, and we will get them betwixt two 
 fires." Anthony on Sampson hastened away with John 
 Granville. 
 
 " Steady, men in the centre ! " cried Sir Bevill ; " take 
 time for breathing, and be ready for the next charge. They 
 shall not fare so easily when tlicy come again." As the left 
 flank drew up on the hill side, overlap})ing the centre, a ring- 
 ing shout rose from the whole line : " God and the King ! " 
 " God and the King ! " they cried, and sprang forward. 
 The task seemed well nigh impossible, but they knew no 
 fear. The enemy's cavalry had moved to the right as 
 Bevill exi)ectcd, and the round shot ripped through their 
 ranks. It was then that the foresight of his generalship 
 began to tell. With a shout, Slanning urged forward 
 his left, forcing the rebel horse to shift their ground, or
 
 332 Sir Bevill 
 
 charge. If they charged, the cannon could be no longer 
 used, for fear of killing their own men. And charge they 
 did for the fourth time : but now the Royalist horse on 
 the right flank having gained open ground fell on them, 
 while the Cornish men under Slanning on the left fired 
 what shot they had into the charging horse. With Sir 
 Bevill the centre held their ground once more, and followed 
 the broken squadron up the hill almost to the cannons' 
 mouths. 
 
 Anthony had taken the message to Slanning and re- 
 mained, as he had been ordered by Sir Bevill, with young 
 John Granville on the left flank, his father deeming that 
 to be a less dangerous place for the boy than in the centre. 
 Riding to the extreme left, he worked forward on his stout 
 cob Sampson, with John Granville, and a few musketeers 
 through the grove of Scotch fir trees, so that when the front 
 charge of horse was delivered by Waller he was able to 
 add considerably to their discomfiture by bringing up his 
 musketeers to bear on their flank. By their fire several 
 of the horses were slain and the charge on the left wing 
 greatly weakened, Anthony himself, with young John, 
 charged in upon them in their confusion, and overturned 
 several, his height and strength, and the reach of his great 
 sword striking terror among the horsemen. Young John 
 did his part bravely also, and escaped without a scratch. 
 When in the thick of the melee, Sampson had run against 
 and overthrown a mounted soldier, the man fell almost 
 under the feet of John Granville's horse. 
 
 " Have a care, master John ! " shouted Anthony, as the 
 boy turned his horse aside in mercy from the prostrate 
 man ; " better trample the base rebel to death than let 
 him shoot thee." 
 
 But he spoke too late, the man had raised himself on 
 his left elbow and fired his pistol at the boy as he passed.
 
 I,<il> AMI I HI l,U.\S\ III I'
 
 ''A Granville ! A Granville I " 333 
 
 By good luck he missed his mark. Anthony saw the look 
 of hatred on the man's face, and recognised the ugly and 
 repulsis^e features of Ben Dorney. He half turned to deal 
 him a blow with his sword when two other men rode at him 
 at once. Swinging round in his saddle he cleft one to the 
 waist and was not a httle surprised to see his young master 
 encounter the other, ward off his attack, and wound him 
 severely with his small sword, so that the man fell from 
 his horse and surrendered to the boy. " Well done, master 
 John, we must seek thy father now." 
 
 Then Hopton charged along the high road. Granville's 
 horse fell upon their flank with fury and Waller's cavalry 
 fled for their lives. But the day was not won yet. There 
 was a line of foot soldiers who were beginning to chant one 
 of their favourite hymns as they marched through the 
 broken ranks of the cavalry on the Cornishmen. The 
 sound of those hymns simply maddened the Western 
 men. Trained to piety as these Cornishmen had been by 
 their beloved leader, it seemed to them sheer blasi)licmy 
 that these " roundheads," as they called them, should 
 keep on invoking the vengeance of God on their righteous 
 cause. They had found their hymn books on the bodies 
 of the slain at Braddon Down and Stratton Hill, and 
 knew how the King's men had been cursed in rhyme by 
 their enemies. They sang, 
 
 " Snatch them from hence alive 
 
 To their eternal doom : 
 The Saints of God rejoice to sec 
 
 Their crimes such vengeance meet, 
 And in their persecutors' blood 
 
 Shall dip victorious feet." 
 
 So in reply they shouted : " God and the King ! " 
 " God and the Granville ! " " Now, Cornislimcn, one and
 
 334 Sir Bevill 
 
 all ! " and as the ground was more level they literally flew 
 at their foes. With an awful crash man met man that day 
 and fought. Englishman against Englishman, friend 
 against friend. To little purpose Waller called to his men 
 to hurl the enemy down the hill ; the man on the great 
 bay horse still led them on, while the giant, now again 
 at his side, swept all before him. The Cornish were win- 
 ning the day all along the line, when Waller, as a last effort, 
 threw what horse and men were left of his reserve upon 
 them. At this supreme moment the good horse that 
 carried Sir Bevill was struck in front by one of the enemy's 
 horsemen, and as he reared back his injured hock gave 
 way and he fell on his side, throwing his rider to the ground. 
 Anthony turned, saw the face of his master's foe, and again 
 recognised Dorney. Sir Bevill was up in an instant. 
 Anthony leaped from his horse to rush to his side, but five 
 men were on him at once : a wound on his thigh brought 
 Sir Bevill to the ground, and just as Anthony's sword 
 swept down on the head of Ben Dorney and split it 
 in two, another with a pole axe drove the spike through 
 Sir Bevill's head-piece and into his skull. John Granville 
 rushed to his father's side and with Anthony beat off 
 his other assailants, and the battle passed on and left 
 them. 
 
 Slowly and carefully they loosed the helmet ; tenderly 
 as a woman Anthony bound up the ghastly wound, and 
 together they bore him down the hill, where Clark joined 
 them, and together they carried the " best-loved man in 
 Cornwall " to the vicarage of Cold Ashton. There through 
 the night he lay, unconscious of all around. A surgeon 
 was by his side, and friend after friend of those that re- 
 mained alive came for a last look at the face which had so 
 helped to brighten their lives. As the sun rose on the 
 sixth, Anthony heard a sound, and placing his car close to
 
 '■^ A Granville I A Granville ! '' 335 
 
 the dying man's lips distinctly heard the words : " Grace. 
 God bless — keep thee — till — we — meet." John bent down 
 to catch his words. The eyes closed, and Cornwall knew 
 that the Bayard of the West, without fear and without 
 reproach, had passed from the storm and stress of earth 
 to the repose beyond.
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 TOGETHER THEY MOURN THE LOSS OF THE DEAD HERO 
 
 THE long summer evening was drawing to a close. Fer- 
 vent had been the summer heat, and all nature would 
 have worn the saddened hue of brown — brown trees, 
 brown grass, sunburnt and dry — worn it, had it not been for 
 those strange mists which sweep up from the bosom of the 
 great Atlantic, and settling down for three days at a time 
 on the Cornish hills and moors bring verdure to the eye 
 and food to the thirsty cattle. Blessed mists, health- 
 giving, yet so saddening, hanging on the fields like a 
 gigantic pall on a maiden's bier. 
 
 Besse and her sister, Grace Granville, looking from the 
 deep embrasure of the northern window of the withdrawing- 
 room at Stowe, could by a side-view catch a glimpse of the 
 sunset on the western sea, as the beams of the sinking sun 
 struck through the white veil of mist, turning the waves 
 to gold and casting a golden haze on rock and wooded hill, 
 The silver thread of the little stream below caught for a 
 moment the dying ray, glittered an instant in the ruddy 
 gleam, then changed to lead. 
 
 " Mother, dear, the mist seems clearing," said Besse. 
 " To-morrow we shall be able to fare to Kilkhampton 
 Church with flowers for father's grave." 
 
 " Don't ask me to go with you, dear 6esse. You and 
 Grace can walk there together. Good Master Rowse will 
 take you into the church. I am too weary to go abroad ; 
 that ride to Launceston was too much for me."
 
 Epilogue 337 
 
 " Didst ride to Launceston, mother ? " said John. " I 
 heard not of it." 
 
 " Nay, dear lad, I could bear to tell no one, Barnaby 
 rode before me, and, as the mist was heavy, I went and 
 came almost unseen. I feared, had I not done so, I could 
 never have looked on that dear face again. Yes, my boy, 
 I saw you and Anthony Payne there, but you did not, 
 you could not, have recognised your mother," 
 
 " I saw one lady kneeling a long time by the coffin. 
 Was that you, dear mother ? " 
 
 " Ay, lad, I covered my face, and knelt by his dear 
 head till the tears came to blind me and ease my pain, 
 thank God." 
 
 " Mother, sweetest mother, I have never dared to tell 
 thee of that day. How great, how noble he was. It 
 was he who won it, so the Marquess and Sir Ralph both 
 allowed. He knew everything, where to go, and what to 
 say and do. Oh, you should have seen our men look to 
 him and shout for God and the King and father. Do you 
 know, they say the crowd that went out of Launceston 
 with his coffin met the crowd that came from Kilkhampton, 
 and that the twenty miles of road were filled from one end 
 to the other with men, women and children. It cannot 
 be true, but 'tis a marvel how many there were." 
 
 " They liad cause to love him, boy." 
 
 " I think he loved them all, mother," said Grace. Her 
 heart was very soft with love for her Robert Fortcscue, 
 to whom she was betrothed. 
 
 A servant entered to ask the Lady Granville if Anthony 
 Payne might have speech with her privately. 
 She rose and went to iiim in Sir Bevill's room. 
 
 " What is it, Anthony ? No ill-tidings now, I trust ; 
 but every sound fears me," 
 
 " None iU, ray lady, but a small messenger hath come 
 
 Y
 
 338 Sir Bevill 
 
 in with a secret message to be given to your ladyship 
 only." 
 
 Anthony produced a letter, which ran as follows : 
 
 " My very hono'' and de' Lady. May I throw myself on 
 y' L''^ bountie. I am Jane Exe an am w"' Her Maj'" the 
 Queen, who travels disguised as my Mother, the L^ Exmoor. 
 We are fly*-' the land. Will it please you to receive us ? 
 I will awaite y' ans' in lesse than an howr. Throwing 
 myself on y' goodness. — Jane Exe." 
 
 '• Who brought this, Anthony ? " 
 
 " That small man called Tite, my lady." 
 What, Coryton's man ? Is Master Coryton with him ? 
 I like him not," 
 
 " Not so, my lady. Tite hath taken the Queen's service 
 these months." 
 
 " But her Majesty was sick at Exeter but now." 
 
 " I know not, my lady." 
 
 " Anthony, dost thou know the contents of this letter ? " 
 
 " My lady, I can guess. I know the Lady Jane Exe be 
 nigh here now, and I d' know that Lady Jane doth serve 
 her Majesty. Tite saith it." 
 
 " 'Tis best, Anthony, to keep all quiet. There are 
 ladies on their way here ; if they be pursued we cannot 
 defend them ; we must keep it secret and further them 
 on their journey. Say nothing, but be here to care for 
 their horses and have discreet men about, who can keep 
 their tongues quiet." 
 
 " I hear a noise, my lady." 
 
 " 'Tis the Lady Jane." 
 
 " I will forth an' meet her, my lady." 
 
 The Lady Jane rode down the steep hill, followed only 
 by one other female and Tite, who had ridden back to 
 meet and guide them from Stibb.
 
 Epilogue 339 
 
 As they gained the gate of Stowe, Jane leaped from her 
 horse, and running to the other lady's side exclaimed in a 
 clear tone : 
 
 " Dear mother, let me assist you." 
 
 Together they entered, meeting Lady Granville at the 
 door. Her son and daughters stood behind her as she 
 advanced to meet her guests. 
 
 " I am greatly honoured, my Lady Exmoor," she said, 
 addressing her by her assumed name, " by your goodness. 
 Your ladyship has indeed conferred a notable favour 
 on our poor house by making it your resting-place. I 
 pray you to enter and rest yourselves. Dearest Jane, 
 you are, and have ever been to me, a messenger of good- 
 ness." She kissed the Queen's hand, and warmly em- 
 braced Lady Jane. 
 
 Refreshments were served in the best " red chamber" 
 hastily prepared for the disguised Lady Exmoor and her 
 daughter. Only Grace and Jane waited on her Majesty. 
 Henrietta was weary and sad. She had left her new-born 
 child behind in Exeter. All her devoted work for her 
 husband, whom she adored, seemed to her to have been of 
 no avail. Insulted as a queen by a Parliament that had 
 imj)eached her of higli treason, and as a woman by the 
 Earl of Essex, who had but lately refused her, in her hours 
 of bodily weakness, a passport to Bath or Bristol for the 
 recovery of her health, but offered " to conduct her himself 
 to London," where she had been impeached, she felt that 
 her life in England was impossible. She could only be a 
 source of anxiety to Ciiarlcs, who had bidden her anew to 
 fly the country. She had travelled by Ok(liam])ton to 
 Launceston, and hence by tiie lanes to Kilkhanipton, 
 purposing to continue her journey along (he unfrequenlctl 
 route by Camelford to Lanherne and thence to Falmouth, 
 where, as she was inlornied, a Dutch ship would convey
 
 340 Sir Bevill 
 
 her to Brest, Her sweetness and vivacity completely won 
 the sympathy of Grace, who admired her for her courage 
 and the energy she had displayed on behalf of the King 
 her husband. The three ladies sat for a while together, 
 their bond a common sorrow, each for her own loss, and 
 all for their country's misery. Jane had- lost her father, 
 wounded fatally at the battle of Edgehill, fighting by Lord 
 Lindsay's side ; Grace, her husband : and the Queen was 
 leaving behind all she loved, perhaps for ever. 
 
 " I would like to assure you, my Lady Granville, of the 
 high estimation in which the King held your glorious 
 husband. He said to me that if England were like Corn- 
 wall, and leaders like the Granville, a king's crown were 
 firmer on his head and a king's heart more free from care. 
 'Twas told me in Exeter by his messenger before I left 
 how deep was his sorrow at thy loss and his own. He had 
 purposed to create him an earl and to keep him near his 
 person." 
 
 " I am deeply sensible, your Majesty, of the King's 
 goodness. My dear husband hath always said that he was 
 willing to lay down his life for his royal master, and I 
 have never known him turn one hair's-breadth from his 
 word." 
 
 Henrietta looked up quickly at these words, but saw at 
 once that Grace had intended no contrast between the 
 truthfulness of Sir Bevill and the lack of that virtue in 
 her lord, but Jane's eye met that of her mistress and there 
 was silence. 
 
 The Queen sought her chamber attended by Jane, who 
 craved a last word with Grace before she slept, and received 
 her promise to await her return. 
 
 " Come with me, dear Grace, to my room for a few 
 moments before I sleep." 
 
 For a few moments they stood together in silence by
 
 Epilogue 34 1 
 
 the window. The soft moonlight fell on the valley below, 
 stretching up to the village in the distance, where the tall 
 church tower loomed dark against the eastern sky. 
 
 " Grace, dear Grace, what can I say ? Sometimes I 
 think my heart will break through its surrounding bars, 
 I love England, and England is destroyed. I loved thy 
 husband, Grace. Oh, how I loved him ! I never knew 
 the strength of that love until that day so many years 
 agone when I bade him seek thee in the garden at Madford, 
 and turned back to know that I had given, and lost, all my 
 heart. Nay, do not shrink from me. I am of another 
 nature to thee, sweet Grace. My heart is my own to break 
 as I please, or rather not as I please, and I broke it then, 
 and thought to die, but my good father needed me, and I 
 won the battle I almost hated to win. Grace, I am an old 
 woman now, older than the fifty-five summers I have lived, 
 but I feel as if I had buried a young heart in thy dear lord's 
 grave. Oh, Grace, thou canst weep for him, for he was 
 thine. I may not weep, for he was never mine. None 
 have ever known nor guessed how I have watched and 
 longed for news of him ; gloried in his life, his fame, his 
 brightness and his courage ; longed to be a man and fight 
 by his side. Once I thought I would get armour and 
 come to him unknown, and be ever his shield and succour 
 in the fight, but I put the thought away as thy love came 
 up before me. Forgive me the thought, dearest friend ; 
 none on earth has shared it, but only thou." 
 
 Grace turned and wound her arms about the neck of 
 her friend, but could not speak. She could understand 
 the feelings of Lady Jane, but, as it were from the outside ; 
 they were not hers. She simi)ly loved her and sorrowed 
 at her sorrow, which was her own, but yet of a character 
 so widely differing. 
 
 " Come and see his picture," she whispered in Jane's
 
 342 Sir Bevill 
 
 ear, and together they stood, first at the one of many years 
 past, with its bright sunny smile, long curling hair and 
 noble brow, painted by an Italian when Bevill was thirty 
 years of age ; and then at the last, taken just before the 
 war broke out at the end of the Short Parliament, when 
 Bevill was in London, and fearing the outbreak of that storm 
 of which, far beyond others of his time, he recognised the 
 rising. 
 
 They looked long at the pictures, without a spoken word, 
 and when at last Jane went to her bed she left Grace with 
 other tears than her own upon her face. 
 
 All the next day the two ladies rested, and on the following 
 morning started at daylight for Lanherne, guided by 
 Anthony Payne. Little Lizzie had taught the great man 
 many things, and among them that the tall lady with dark 
 eyes, and hair much mingled with white, was one to be 
 greatly revered, as not only the friend and relation of the 
 great Queen Elizabeth, but also one who, in her sincere 
 friendship for Sir Bevill, had persuaded Sir George Smith 
 to consent to his daughter's marriage. That the lady with 
 fair hair was the Queen of England Tony had no doubt 
 whatever, but how to express his devotion and loyalty 
 on the journey without disclosing the secret was a sore 
 and continual trial. " Make way," he cried once in 
 the steep narrow street of Camelford, " make way, ye 
 varlets, for her most graciousest Majesty, the Lady of 
 Exmoor," and his wrath knew no bounds when a fat 
 citizen of that ancient town demanded to know whether 
 the good dame were his mother-in-law that he made such a 
 fuss about her. 
 
 They reached the Abbey of Lanherne in safety, and^thcre 
 being met by Prince Maurice, the Queen was conducted to 
 Falmouth and across to Brest, after many perils from the 
 Parliamentary ships of war that fired upon her boat.
 
 Epilogue 343 
 
 Peace reigned at Stowe. There the lady of the house 
 lived undisturbed by the strife of England's King and 
 Parliament. Her son for a time took his full share in 
 the war, and proved him an apt pupil of his heroic father 
 and Anthony Payne. In command of his father's troop, 
 he fought and was left for dead at a subsequent battle at 
 Newbury, but recovering of his wounds at Bristol, with aid 
 of the King's " phisitians," he returned to his Cornish 
 home, to await in patience the day when, fifteen years 
 later, at the bidding of Parliament and General Monk, 
 known afterwards as the Duke of Albemarle, he carried 
 the nation's request to the son of the murdered King to 
 resume his father's crown. 
 
 FINIS
 
 
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