"Plenty have died in their beds since."
"But have lost all their money," retorted Rupert.
"It's better to lose money than life," said Tidman evasively.
"I'm not so certain of that Major. But you should talk with Mrs. Pettley about Abbot Raoul's curse. She believes in it."
"And you Ainsleigh?"
Rupert shrugged his shoulders. "We certainly seem to be most unlucky," said he, declining to commit himself to an opinion.
"Want of brains," snapped the Major, who was one of those men who have a reason for everything, "your people wasted their money, and refused to soil their hands with trade. Such pig-headedness brings about misfortune, without the aid of a silly old fool's curse."
"I don't think Abbot Raoul was a fool," protested the host mildly, "on the contrary, he is said to have been a learned and clever man. Aymas Ainsleigh, received the abbey from Henry VIII., and burnt Abbot Raoul in his own cloisters," he nodded towards the ruins, "you can see the blackened square of grass yonder, as a proof of the curse. Herbage will not grow there, and never will, till the curse be lifted."
"Huh," said the Major with supreme contempt, "any chance of that?"
Rupert smiled. "A chance that will never occur I fear. The curse, or prophecy, or whatever you like to call it----"