“Not so,” the parson answered. “Thou canst not come to her afore they land, by the way round; and thou canst not go over the cliff; but I can, for I 've climbed these slippery walls up and down since I was six year old.” His blue eyes sparkled like that blue sea below; he was tucking up his gown about his waist.
“To warn the knight and bring aid to thy parish is thy devoir; 't is mine to succour the maid,” quoth the peddler very hot. His eyes were blue likewise, and eerie in the midst of his brown visage.
So they looked each into the heart of the other, angrily; and all the while that French ship was coming in. Then the young parson drooped his head, and “Not for mine own sake, but the maid's, let me go over the cliff, brother,‘ he said. ’Think on the maid! If they find her alone on the shore, or if they take her fleeing up to the village, of what avail were my love then, or thine?”
The peddler put his two hands to his mouth and called out, trying to make the maid hear him. But the wind drove his voice backward over the land; and the ship came on with the wind. Then the peddler groaned and, with never a look nor a word for the priest, he set off to run to where the manor-house was distant two good miles. When the priest looked over the cliff, the maid was already running up the coombe to the mill that stood in the brook's way. Nevertheless, he began to go down the cliff.
So soon as Calote saw that little ship, she knew what was to happen; for the villagers on the coast had told her many tales of how the French were like to come any day and burn and pillage; and how the men of Cornwall had been so harassed that they had demanded fighting men to be sent down to protect them and their coast; and the Commons desired that those lords who had estates by the sea should dwell upon them to succour their people.
Calote stood a moment looking out. This was a little ship, and but one; might not these villagers overcome a few French and take them prisoners? Here would be a tale to tell! Immediately she sped up the coombe to the mill, and:—
“The French are coming,” quoth she breathless. “Bar thy door!”
“And so be burnt like a swallow in a great-house chimney,” said the miller. “Not I,” and calling to his wife and his man, and snatching up his youngest, he made ready to go with Calote.
“But I 'll bring succour,” she protested. “Wilt thou leave all the good corn to pillage?”
“Yea, I will,” answered the miller. “The murderers shall sooner have my corn than my company.”