"Monstrous dear, is it not?" inquired Harry.
"Nothing to what it was in my young days," answered his father. "Forty or fifty years ago, at the time of the Dutch war, charcoals went up to one hundred and ten shillings the chaldron, and those were lucky who could get them even at that price."
"Was not that about the time of the Great Plague?"
"Yes—two or three years later."
"Then you remember the Plague, Father?"
"Remember it!" said the Squire, leaning back in his chair and neglecting his draughts. "Men don't forget such a thing as that in a hurry, my lad. Aye, I remember it."
"But there was no plague here, was there?"
"Not just in this village; but well-nigh all communication was stopped between Tavistock and Exeter, and in the King's highway the grass was growing. It was awful at Tavistock. The town was shut up and declared in a state of siege, and none allowed to approach nearer than three miles. Watchmen were appointed, the only men permitted to hold communication with the infected town; and when any provisions were needed, they made proclamation, and the neighboring villages brought such things as they asked to the high ground above Merrivale Bridge, where the cordon was drawn."
"And how did they pay for their provisions?"
"A pitful of vinegar was dug there, in some hole in Dartmoor,[[4]] and the money dropped into it. None in healthy places were allowed to touch money coming from infected places without that provision."