It was at the close of a lovely day in July—a Sunday—when their anger found vent.
They had marked the presence of a stranger at the morning service—a stern-looking, middle-aged man, garbed in black, and as they came out of church the men gathered in groups to discuss the object and purpose of his visit.
The man was sojourning at the village inn (the "Six Bells"), and thither he was allowed for the present to retire unmolested, although a strict watch was at once instituted upon his doings.
In the afternoon the visitor again attended service, and an ominous murmur among the rustics became distinctly audible as they observed that he was again busily taking notes of all that he saw and heard.
The service over, the man left the church with the intention of proceeding to the inn, where his horse was stabled; but he was not to be allowed to leave the village thus quietly.
Hard by the church was the horse-pond—at this period of the year about half full of dark slimy water; in the centre of the pond the depth would be about four or five feet.
Suddenly the visitor found himself surrounded by a band of determined, angry-looking Sussex men.
"What does this mean?" he asked sternly. "Do you men know that I am about the Queen's business?"
"Aye, we thought as much, and that's about the reason of it all," answered the spokesman of the rustics. "Gie us them papers which we saw thee so busy with in the church instead of minding thy prayers! Gie us them—we see them sticking out of thy pocket, and we means to have them—or it will be the worse for thee!"
"Fools!" snarled the man, without quailing before the coming storm, "fools! do you not know that it is a hanging matter to lay a hand on me?"