Then something happened that scared Sam out of his wits and sent him scampering to the kitchen for his father.
"Feyther, Feyther," he cried, "come quick! Squire's took bad. 'A went all gashly white and wambled about, sighin' and groanin' that terrible! He's dyin', I b'lieve."
Old Reuben was lame, but he caught up a jug of water and hobbled with it as fast as he could to the Squire's room, sending Sam to fetch the mistress. He found the Squire seated in his chair, with a stony look upon his ashen face.
"What ails thee, maister?" cried the terrified servant.
"Nothing, nothing, Reuben," replied Mr. Trevanion. "Don't be afraid, and don't alarm your mistress."
Here Mrs. Trevanion came hastily in, Sam hanging behind as if afraid to approach too near.
"I am sorry they called you, my dear," said the Squire. "There is nothing wrong. Leave us, Reuben."
The old man hobbled away. Mrs. Trevanion stood by her husband's chair.
"I was overcome for a moment, but it has passed," said the Squire. "John Trevanion is the master of my lands."
"It cannot be, Roger!"