"In the king's name, parson!"
The vicar, bending over his next Sunday's sermon, rose hastily and came out.
"Are you Parson Ewan?" asked the man.
"I am," answered the vicar, straightening himself.
"Then can you tell me if a woman by name Patience Beaumont is living hereabouts at a place called Holt Farm?"
"Certainly she is," said the vicar. "She has dwelt there for well-nigh three years."
"Will you direct me to the farm?" asked the messenger.
Without any further answer the vicar stepped out into the garden.
"You have but to cross yonder bridge and go straight before you. Holt Farm stands just behind that clump of trees."
"It is a steep ride for a horse," put in the man.