"Well, damme, parson, what's a man to do? Here's all these outrages, and it's perfectly clear to my mind, now, that that traitorous son of——"
"Tut, tut, fie, squire!"
"That that traitorous son of a traitor, knowing that I have the possession of the manor of his ancestors, which the King—God bless him—took from their family on account of their treason, that boy—don't interrupt me, Parson Trant—that boy is the culprit, and damme—I'll have him arrested for malicious mischief and trespass."
"Not so fast, squire. What evidence do you have except your own suspicions and the fact that the lad was seen nigh the Prospidnic road gate? If I know aught of law there's not sufficient evidence."
"There, there, you talk of law—as if a magistrate didn't know the law."
"Well, the evidence is lacking," said the parson, gently, though firmly, for he would not allow the squire to shake his confidence in his best pupil. "The lad has a good reputation, is a bright scholar in my parish school, and——"
"Well, well, we'll get more evidence," interrupted the squire, a little testily. "George, see that the dog is buried, and—here, hitch up the black mare for Mistress Alice; she's going out this morning."
The hostler paused, fingering his cap.
"I'm feared, squire, Queeny is a little huntrusty; she's been standing in the stall some time."
"What!—--"