"In the challs." [Cattle sheds.]
"Take you this gun and give him the other, and you're to fire on anyone who tries to force the stable gate. They're loaded, the pair of 'em, with buckshot. Now, this fellow,"—he reached down a third gun—"is loaded blank, and here's another with a bullet in him. I'll take these out to the front."
"But, master, 'tis a hanging matter!"
"And I'll hang, and so shall you, before e'er a one o' these scoundrels sets foot in Steens. Go you off quick and tell Joseph, if there's trouble, to let slip the tether of the shorthorn bull."
Roger crammed a powder-flask into one pocket with a handful of wadding, a bag of bullets into another, took his two guns, and went forth into the courtlage, in time to see a purple-faced man in an ill-fitting Dalmahoy wig climb off his horse and advance to the gate, with half a dozen retainers behind him.
He tried the latch, and, finding it locked, began to shake the gate by the bars.
"Hullo!" said Roger. "And who may you be, making so bold?"
"Is your name Roger Stephen?" the purple-faced man demanded.
"I asked you a question first. Drop shaking my gate and answer it, or else take yourself off."
"And I order you to open at once, sir! I'm the Under-Sheriff of Cornwall, and I've come with a writ of ejectment. You've defied the law long enough, Master Stephen; you've brought me far; and, if you've ever heard the name of William Sandercock, you know he's one to stand no nonsense."