Transcriber's Note:
Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.

MISTRESS NANCY
MOLESWORTH

A TALE OF ADVENTURE

BY

Joseph Hocking

Author of "The Birthright," etc.

NEW YORK

DOUBLEDAY & McCLURE CO.

1898

Copyright, 1898, by
DOUBLEDAY & McCLURE CO.

Press of J. J. Little & Co.
Astor Place, New York

Contents

MISTRESS NANCY MOLESWORTH

CHAPTER I. TREVANION.

The only part of my history which I regard as worthy of placing on record is confined to a few months. I was thirty-two years of age at the time, and had thus entered into the very summer of my life. At that age a man's position ought to be assured; at any rate his career should be marked out with tolerable plainness. Such, however, was not my fortune. Although I bear one of the best known and most honoured names in my native country, I, Roger Trevanion, was in sore straits at the time of which I write. And this not altogether because of my own faults. I did not come into the possession of my heritage until I was thirty, my father having retained absolute control of his estate until his death. Up to that time I knew nothing of his money matters. Neither, indeed, did I care. I had enough for my own use; I possessed good horses and was able to enjoy what festivities the county provided, to the full. Ever since my mother's death, which took place when I was fourteen, my father paid me but little attention. He saw to it that I was taught to ride, fence, shoot, with other accomplishments befitting my station, and then allowed me to follow my own inclinations. As a consequence I became a gay fellow, being guilty, I am afraid, of most of the misdemeanours common to young men. I remembered that I was a Trevanion, however, and while I did not belong to the most important branch of the family, I held to the code of honour to which for many generations we had been true.

I knew that my father gambled freely, and had many relations with people which were beyond my comprehension. I did not trouble about this, however. Very few restraints were placed upon me, and I was content.

When my father died, I discovered that I was a poor man. I had still the semblance of wealth. I lived in the old house, and was supposed to own the lands surrounding it. The old servants still called me master, and the farmers paid their rents to me as they had paid them to my fathers. In reality, however, everything was mortgaged for nearly all it was worth. True, the lawyer told me that if I would discharge a number of superfluous servants, get rid of a number of useless horses, and consent to the sale of a quantity of timber, I could by practicing the strictest economy for ten years, place everything on a satisfactory footing.

"That will mean that I must give up hunting, racing, drinking, betting, besides closing the house and living like a hermit, I suppose?" I said to him. "That does not suit me. Is there no other way?"

"Yes, there is one," he replied.

"And that?"

"A suitable marriage."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Women are not in my way, Mr. Hendy," I said. The truth was, I had fancied myself in love when I was twenty, with the daughter of John Boscawen, a distant relation of the famous Boscawens. She had led me on until I was mad about her. I was her slave for several months, and she treated me as though I were a dog of the fetch-and-carry breed. Presently a young fellow from a place near Penzance, Prideaux by name, came to her father's place, and no sooner did he start a-courting her than she sent me about my business, drove me away in fact, as though I were a cur. Since that time I had hated women, and I grew angry at the thought of ever being expected to put confidence in one.

"The state of your affairs is not generally known," persisted the lawyer, "and a wife with a handsome dowry would mean getting back the deeds."

"No petticoats for me," I replied angrily.

"But if the petticoats mean comfort and freedom from money cares, would you not be wise to put aside your prejudice against them?"

"Anything but that," I cried, remembering Amelia Boscawen.

"Retrenchment or a wife," persisted the lawyer.

"Neither," I cried, angry that directly I came into my heritage I should find myself in such a fix.

The lawyer sighed.

"From whom did my father borrow?" I asked presently.

"Peter Trevisa," he replied.

I knew the man slightly. A little, shrivelled-up, old creature who had married late in life, and who had one son whom we called "Young Peter," because he was so much like his father. Young Peter was not so old as I, and I had never been friendly with him. In fact I had despised him as a ferrety kind of fellow, with whom I had nothing in common.

"He holds you like that," said the lawyer, putting out his hand and clasping it.

A great deal more was said, but to no purpose, and I went on as I had gone before. True, I discharged one or two of the younger servants and sold a quantity of timber, but I did not retrench as the lawyer advised. Thus at the end of two years I was, if possible, in a worse position than when my father died.

One day—and here my story really begins—I rode off to a fox hunt. I still held my head high, and rode the best horse in the field. I was careful, too, to be well dressed, and I prided myself that in spite of my poverty I was inferior to none. I was young, regarded as handsome, stood over six feet in my stockings, and was well set up. As usual I avoided women, although there were many at the meet. Although one of the heaviest men there, I kept well ahead through the day, and in spite of the weight of my debts I was in at the death.

After the hunt I went to Geoffry Luxmore's ball, which was a part of the day's programme, but I did not join the dancers. I wanted to be free from women, and therefore accepted an invitation to take part in a game of cards.

While sitting at dinner I saw old Peter Trevisa. He nodded to me in a friendly way. Afterward he came to me and caught me by the arm.

"And how are matters going at Trevanion, eh, lad?" he asked.

"Grandly," I replied gaily, for I was heated with good wine and I felt no cares.

"Thou shouldst be in the dancing-room, lad," he said. "There's many a fine maid there; many with a big dowry. Geoffry Luxmore's daughter should suit thee well, Roger."

"No women for me," I cried.

"No; dost a hate them so?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Then my Peter'll be getting Trevanion, Roger?" he said with a leer.

In spite of my excitement I felt uneasy as I looked at his eyes.

"I've been thinking about calling in my mortgage," he said.

"Do," I replied.

"Ah, sits the wind in that quarter, eh? Well, Roger, thou hast always been a dare-devil fellow. But a landless Trevanion will be a sorry sight."

"There never has been one yet."

"And if thou art the first, 'twill be a sorry business."

I felt more uncomfortable, so I swallowed a large bumper of wine to keep my spirits up.

Presently we sat down to play. I won, I remember, freely at first, and was in high good humour.

"Luck seems with thee to-night," said old Peter Trevisa. "After all, it seems thou'st done well to come here rather than go a-dancing with the maidens yonder."

As he spoke the music ceased, and on looking up I saw Ned Prideaux, the fellow who had stolen Amelia Boscawen from me, come into the room.

I don't know that I felt any enmity toward him; the only wrong feeling I had for him was on account of my pride. That he should have been preferred before me wounded my vanity.

Old Peter Trevisa knew of the business, and laughed as he came up.

"Thou didst beat him in courting, lad," he said to Prideaux, "let's see if thou canst beat him at playing."

This he said like one who had been drinking a good deal. And although I had not seen him making free with wine, I fancied he must be fairly drunk; consequently I did not resent his words. Besides, I was in high good humour because of my winnings.

"I'll take a hand with pleasure," answered Prideaux. He wiped his brow, for he had been dancing, and sat down opposite me.

I broke a fresh bottle of wine, and we commenced playing. Fool that I was, I drank freely throughout the evening, and presently I became so excited that I hardly knew what I was doing. Several fellows gathered around to watch us, and the stakes were high. I had not been playing with Prideaux long before my luck turned. I began to lose all I had gained. Old Peter Trevisa chuckled as he saw that the cards were against me.

"Give it up, Roger," he said in a sneering kind of way; "Trevanion can't stand bad luck, lad."

This wounded my pride. "Trevanion can stand as much as I care to let it stand," I replied, and I laid my last guinea on the table.

Presently Mr. Hendy, the old family lawyer, came to my side.

"Be careful, Mr. Trevanion," he whispered, "this is no time for ducks and drakes."

But I answered him with an oath, for I was in no humour to be corrected. Besides, wild and lawless as I had been for several years, I remembered that I was a Trevanion, and resented the family attorney daring to try to check me in public.

"He won't listen to reason, Hendy," sneered old Peter Trevisa. "Ah, these young men! Hot blood, Hendy, hot blood; we can't stop a Trevanion."

I had now lost all my money, but I would not stop. Old Trevisa standing at my elbow offering sage advice maddened me. I blurted out what at another time I would not have had mentioned on any consideration.

"You have a stake in Trevanion, Trevisa," I cried angrily.

"Nonsense, nonsense, Roger," whispered the old man, yet so loudly that all could hear.

"You have," I cried, "you know you have. If I paid you all you lent my father, there would be little left. How much would the remnant be?"

"We'll not speak of that," laughed the old man.

"But we will," I said defiantly, for what with wine, and bad luck, and the irritation of the old man's presence I was beside myself. "What more would you lend on the estate?"

He named a sum.

"I'll play you for that sum, Prideaux," I cried.

"No," replied Prideaux; "no, Trevanion, you've lost enough."

"But I will!" I replied angrily.

"No," said Prideaux, "I'm not a gamester of that order. I only play for such sums as have been laid on the table."

"But you shall!" I cried with an oath; "you dare not as a gentleman refuse me. You've won five hundred guineas from me this very night. You must give me a chance of winning it back."

"Luck is against you, Trevanion," replied Prideaux. "It shall never be said of me that I won a man's homestead from him. I refuse to play."

"Prideaux has won a maid from you!" laughed old Trevisa with a drunken hiccup. "Be careful or he'll take Trevanion, too."

"I'll never play for the land," cried Prideaux again.

"But you shall," I protested. "If you refuse you are no gentleman, and you will act like a coward to boot."

"Very well," replied Prideaux coolly, "it shall be as you say."

We arranged our terms and commenced playing again.

Half an hour later I had lost the sum which old Peter Trevisa said he could further advance on Trevanion. I do not think I revealed my sensations when I realized that I had lost my all, but a cold feeling came into my heart nevertheless.

"Trevanion," said Prideaux, "we'll not regard the last half-hour's play as anything. It was only fun."

"That will not do," I replied. "We have played, and I have lost; that is all."

"But I shall not take——"

"You will," I cried. "You have played fairly, and it is yours. I will see to it at once that the amount shall be handed to you."

"I will not take it," cried Prideaux. "I absolutely refuse."

I know I was mad; my blood felt like streams of molten fire in my veins, but I was outwardly cool. The excitement I had previously shown was gone. Perhaps despair helped me to appear calm.

"Look you, Peter Trevisa," I said; "you give Prideaux a draft for that money."

"Roger, Roger," said the old man coaxingly, "take Prideaux's offer. He won your maid; don't let him win Trevanion too. You'll cut a sorry figure as a landless Trevanion."

I seized a pen which lay near, and wrote some words on a piece of paper.

"There," I said to Prideaux as I threw it to him, "it shall not be said that a Trevanion ever owed a Prideaux anything, not even a gaming debt. Gentlemen, I wish you good-night."

I left the room as I spoke and ordered my horse. I was able to walk straight, although I felt slightly giddy. I scarcely realized what I had done, although I had a vague impression that I was now homeless and friendless. A ten-mile journey lay before me, but I thought nothing of it. What time I arrived at Trevanion I know not. My horse was taken from me by an old servant, and without speaking a word to any one I went straight to bed.

CHAPTER II. PETER TREVISA'S OFFER.

The next morning I awoke with terrible pains in my head, while my heart lay like lead within me. For some time I could not realize what had happened; indeed, I hardly knew where I was. It was broad daylight, but I could not tell what the hour was. Presently a clock began to strike, and then I realized that I lay in my own bed at Trevanion and that the clock stood in the turret of my own stables. I counted the strokes. It stopped at eleven. No sooner had it ceased than all that had happened the previous night flashed through my mind. I jumped out of bed and looked out of the window. Never had the place seemed so fair to look upon, never had the trees looked so large and stately. And I was burdened with the dread remembrance that it was no longer mine. When I had dressed I tried to face the matter fairly. I tried to understand what I had done. The more I thought about it the more I cursed myself for being a fool. For I felt how insane I had been. I had drunk too much wine, I had allowed myself to become angry at old Peter Trevisa's words. I had blurted out truths which under other circumstances I would rather have bitten my tongue in two than have told. I had acted like a madman. Wild, foolish as I had been in the past, that night was the climax of my folly. Why had old Peter Trevisa's presence and words aroused me so?

The more I thought the sadder I became, the darker did my prospects appear. I had given Prideaux a written guarantee for the money I had been unable to pay. That piece of paper meant my ruin, if he took advantage of it. Would he do this? Yes, I would see that he did. In extremities as I was, I would rather sacrifice the land than violate our old code of honour.

I heard a knock at the door, and a servant entered.

"From Mr. Trevisa of Treviscoe, sir," he said.

I am afraid my hand trembled slightly as I took the letter.

"Who brought it, Daniel?" I asked.

"A servant, sir."

"Let breakfast be ready in ten minutes, Daniel; I'll be down by that time."

"Yes, sir."

I broke the seal of the letter and read it. I soon discovered that it was written by young Peter Trevisa. For, first of all, it was written in a clear hand and correctly spelt, and I knew that old Peter's writing was crabbed and ill-shapen; besides which, the old man had not learnt the secret of stringing words together with anything like ease. The contents of the epistle, too, revealed the fact that the son, and not the father, acted as scribe. The following is an exact transcript thereof:

"Treviscoe the 25th day of March in the year 1745.

"To Roger Trevanion, Esq., of Trevanion.

"Dear Sir:—The events of last night having altered their complexion somewhat after you left the house of Geoffry Luxmore, Esq., and the writing which you gave to Mr. Edward Prideaux having changed hands, with that gentleman's consent, it has become necessary for you to visit Treviscoe without delay. My father has therefore instructed me to write (instead of employing our attorney, who has up to the present conducted all correspondence relating to my father's connections with Trevanion) urging your presence here. I am also asked to impress upon you the fact that it will be greatly to your advantage to journey here immediately, while your delay will be perilous to yourself. We shall therefore expect you here within two hours from the delivery of this letter.

"Peter Trevisa."

This communication certainly looked ominous, and I felt in no very pleasant frame of mind as I entered the room beneath, where my breakfast had been placed for me.

"Where is the fellow who brought this, Daniel?" I asked of my old serving-man.

"He is standin' outside, sur. He wudden cum in. He seemed in a terble 'urry."

I went to the door and saw a horse which had evidently been hard ridden. It was covered with mud and sweat. The man who stood by the animal's side touched his hat when he saw me.

"Go into the kitchen, my man, and get something to eat and drink," I said.

"I must not, sur," was the reply. "My master told me to ride hard, and to return immediately I got your answer."

"Anything wrong at Treviscoe?"

"Not as I know ov, sur."

I had no hope of anything good from old Peter, and I felt like defying him. My two years' possession of Trevanion had brought but little joy. Every day I was pinched for money, and to have an old house to maintain without a sufficient income galled me. The man who is poor and proud is in no enviable position. Added to this, the desire to hide my poverty had made me reckless, extravagant, dissolute. Sometimes I had been driven to desperation, and, while I had never forgotten the Trevanion's code of honour, I had become feared and disliked by many people. Let me here say that the Trevanion code of honour might be summed up in the following way: "Never betray a woman. Never break a promise. Never leave an insult unavenged. Suffer any privation rather than owe money to any man. Support the church, and honour the king."

Having obeyed these dictates, a Trevanion might feel himself free to do what else he liked. He could be a drunkard, a gamester, a swashbuckler, and many other things little to be desired. I speak now for my own branch of the family, for I had but little to do with others of my name. In the course of years the estates had been much divided, and my father's patrimony was never great. True, there were many hundreds of acres of land, but, even although all of it were free from embarrassment, it was not enough to make its owner wealthy. My father had also quarrelled with those who bore our name, partly, I expect, because they treated him with but little courtesy. Perhaps this was one reason why he had been recklessly extravagant, and why he had taken no pains to make me careful. Anyhow I am afraid that while I was feared by many I was beloved by few. I had had many quarrels, and the law of my county being something lax, I had done deeds which had by no means endeared me to my neighbours.

My pride was great, my temper was of the shortest, my tastes and habits were expensive, and my income being small, I was weary of keeping up a position for which I had not the means.

Consequently, as I read young Peter Trevisa's letter, I felt like refusing to obey his bidding. I had been true to the Trevanion code of honour. I had given Prideaux a written promise that the gaming debt should be paid. Let them do their worst. I was young, as strong as a horse, scarcely knew the meaning of fatigue, and I loved adventure. I was the last of my branch of the family, so there was no one that I feared grieving. Very well, then, I would seek my fortune elsewhere. There were treasures in India, there were quarrels nearer home, and strong men were needed. There were many careers open to me; I would leave Trevanion and go to lands beyond the seas.

I was about to tell the man to inform his master that I refused to go to Treviscoe, when I was influenced to change my mind. I was curious to know what old Peter had to say. I was careless as to what he intended doing in relation to the moneys I owed him, but I wondered what schemes the old man had in his mind. Why did he want to see me? It would do no harm to ride to his house. I wanted occupation, excitement, and the ride would be enjoyable.

"Very well," I said, "if I do not see your master before you do, tell him I will follow you directly."

"Yes, sur," and without another word the man mounted the horse and rode away.

I ate a hearty breakfast, and before long felt in a gay mood. True the old home was dear to me, but the thought of being free from anxious care as to how I might meet my creditors was pleasant. I made plans as to where I should go, and what steps I should first take in winning a fortune. The spirit of adventure was upon me, and I laughed aloud. In a few days Cornwall should know me no more. I would go to London; when there nothing should be impossible to a man of thirty-two.

I spoke pleasantly to Daniel, the old serving-man, and my laughter became infectious. A few seconds later the kitchen maids had caught my humour. Then my mood changed, for I felt a twinge of pain at telling them they must leave the old place. Some of them had lived there long years, and they would ill-brook the thought of seeking new service. They had served the family faithfully too, and ought to be pensioned liberally instead of being sent penniless into the world.

A little later I was riding furiously toward Treviscoe. The place was a good many miles from Trevanion, but I reached it in a little more than an hour. I found old Peter and his son eagerly awaiting me.

"Glad to see you, Roger, glad to see you," said the old man.

"Why did you send for me?" I asked.

"I'll tell you directly. John, take some wine in the library."

The servant departed to do his bidding, and I followed the two Trevisas into the library.

"Sit down by the fire, Roger, lad; that's it. First of all we'll drink each other's health in the best wine I have in my cellar. This is a special occasion, Roger."

"Doubtless, a special occasion," I replied; "but no wine for me at present. I want to keep my head cool in talking with such as you. What do you want of me?"

"Let's not be hasty, Roger," said old Peter, eyeing me keenly, while young Peter drew his chair to a spot where his face was shaded, but from which he could see me plainly. "Let's be friendly."

"I'm in no humour to be friendly," was my rejoinder. "Tell me why you have wished me to come to you?"

"I would have come to you, but I had a twinge of gout this morning, and was not able to travel. I wanted to see you on an important matter, my dear lad."

"Will you drop all such honeyed phrases, Peter Trevisa," I said angrily. "I know you lent money to my father on Trevanion. I know I have been a fool since I came into possession. Last night I lost my head. Well, Prideaux shall be paid, and you will take the rest. I quite expect this, and am prepared for it."

"Prideaux has been paid," laughed the old man.

"In cash?"

"Aye, that he has."

"Who paid him?"

"I did."

"Oh, I see. You wanted the bone all to yourself, did you," I cried angrily. "Well, some dogs are like that. But it makes no difference to me. Do your worst."

"You remember this," he said, holding up the piece of paper I had given to Prideaux the night before.

"I was mad when I wrote it," I replied, "but I remember it well. How did it come into your hands?"

"Prideaux has very fine notions about honour," remarked old Peter. "He did not like taking advantage of it, and yet he knew that you as a Trevanion would insist on his doing so."

"Well?"

"Well, Roger lad, seeing I have the Trevanion deeds, I thought I might as well have this too. So I offered him money down, and he was pleased to arrange the matter that way. He has made the thing over to me."

"Let's see it—his writing ought to be on it to that effect."

"It is; aye, it is."

"Then let me look at it."

"No, Roger. This paper is very precious to me. I dare not let you have it. You might destroy it then."

"Peter Trevisa," I cried, "did ever a Trevanion do a trick like that?"

"No, but you are in a tight corner, and——"

"Listen, you chattering old fool," I cried angrily. "If I wished, I could squeeze the life out of the bodies of both of you and take the paper from you before any one could come to your aid. But that's not my way; give it me."

"I'll trust you, Roger; here it is."

I looked at the paper. I saw my own promise and signature; underneath it was stated that the money had been paid by Peter Trevisa, and signed "Edward Prideaux."

I flung it at him. "There," I said, "you've forged the last link in your chain now. I am quite prepared for what I have no doubt you will do. Trevanion is yours. Well, have it; may it bring you as much joy as it has brought me."

"You misjudge me," cried old Peter. "You misjudge both me and my son. True, Trevanion would be a fine place for my lad, but then I should not like to drive you away from your old home. All the Trevanions would turn in their graves if any one else lived there. I want to be your friend. I desire to help you on to your feet again."

"Wind!" I cried. "Trust you to help any man!"

"Listen to what my father has to say," cried young Peter. "You will see that we both wish to be friendly."

His face was partly hidden; nevertheless I saw the curious light shining from his eyes. He was undersized, this young Peter, just as his father was. A foxy expression was on his face, and his mouth betrayed his nature. He was cunning and sensual. His was not unlike a monkey's face. His forehead receded, his lips were thick, his ears large.

"Roger Trevanion, my lad, there is no reason why you should have to leave your old home. Nay, there is no reason why you should not be better off than you have been. That is why I got this paper from Edward Prideaux."

Old Peter spoke slowly, looking at me from the corner of his eyes.

"You want me to do something," I said after a minute's silence.

"Ah, Roger," laughed the old man, "how quickly you jump at conclusions."

"It will not do, Peter Trevisa," I cried. "You have Trevanion. Well, make the most of it. I shall not be sorry to be away from the county. The thought that everything has really belonged to you has hung like a millstone around my neck. I am not going to fetch and carry for you."

"But if you had the deeds back. If I burnt this paper. If the estate were unencumbered. What then?"

"You know it will not be. Trust you to give up your pound of flesh."

"You do me an injustice," replied old Peter, with a semblance of righteous indignation. "What right have you to say this? Have I been hard on you. Have I dunned you for your money."

"No; but you have lost no opportunity of letting me know that the place belongs to you."

"That was natural, very natural. I wanted to put a check on your extravagance."

I laughed in his face, for I knew this to be a lie.

"Roger Trevanion," cried young Peter, "my father is a merciful man. He has your welfare at heart. He is old too. Is it manly to mock old age."

"Let there be an end of this," I cried. "I begin to see why you have brought me here. I knew you had some deep-laid plans or I would not have come. It is always interesting to know what such as you think. Well, let's know what it is."

For the moment I seemed master of the situation. An outsider would have imagined them in my power instead of I being in theirs. Especially did young Peter look anxious.

"I am sure we can trust Roger," said the old man. "When a Trevanion gives his word he has never been known to break it."

"But they are learning to be careful how to give their word," I retorted.

Peter looked uneasy. "But if I ask you to keep what I tell you a secret, you will promise, Roger?"

"I ask for no confidences," I replied.

"You said just now that we wanted you to do something," said young Peter. "You guessed rightly. If you do not feel inclined to do what we ask you, you will of course respect anything we may tell you?"

"That is but fair," was my answer.

"You promise, then?" cried old Peter.

"If I honourably can," I replied.

For a few seconds both men were silent; then old Peter began to speak again.

"Roger Trevanion," he said, "you know that I hold the deeds of Trevanion; you know that you are entirely at my mercy."

"Well enough."

"You would like to remain at Trevanion? You, a Trevanion, would not like to be an outcast, a mere vagrant, a landless gipsy."

"I don't care much," I replied. "I should be free; and I would rather be landless than be supposed to own the land, while everything practically belonged to you. I've told you this before. Why make me say it again?"

"But you would like the deeds back. You would like to live at the old home with plenty of money?"

"You know I would. Why mock me?"

"You would do a great deal in order that this might come to pass."

"What do you want?"

We had come back to the same point again, and again old Peter hesitated.

"You know Restormel?" he said at length.

"Restormel Castle, up by Lostwithiel?" I asked.

"No; Restormel in the parish of St. Miriam, a few miles north from here?"

"Oh, yes, I know."

"What do you know?"

Both old Peter and young Peter spoke in the same breath; both spoke eagerly, too—anxiously in fact.

"What is rumoured by certain gossips," I replied. "I expect there is no truth in it."

"But what have you heard?"

"It is said that the estate belongs to a chit of a maid," I replied; "that the maid's mother died at her birth, and that her father, Godfrey Molesworth, did not long survive her. That he was broken-hearted. That everything was left to a mere baby."

"But what became of the baby?"

"I know not. I have heard that she has never been seen on the place, although her father has been dead wellnigh twenty years. That the rents are paid to Colman Killigrew who lives at Endellion Castle, and who is a godless old savage. Rumour says that he claims to be the maid's guardian. But of this I am ignorant. He lives full fifty miles from here, and I know nothing of him."

"That is all you have heard?"

"That is all I can remember at present."

"You have never seen the maid?"

"No. Who has? Stay; I have heard she was placed in a convent school. Old Killigrew is a Catholic, I suppose."

"I'll tell you more, Roger Trevanion. Colman Killigrew has been fattening on the Restormel lands for wellnigh twenty years. He hath kept the maid, Nancy Molesworth, a prisoner. In a few months she will be twenty-one. He intends marrying her to one of his sons. She hates the whole tribe of Killigrews, but he cares nothing for that. He is determined; you can guess why."

"Yes, such things are common. But what is that to me? I know nothing of the maid, Nancy Molesworth; I do not care. Let the Killigrews marry her; let them possess Restormel."

"My son Peter hath seen the maid, Roger."

"Ah! How?"

"He had to pay a visit in the neighbourhood of Endellion Castle, and he saw her by chance."

"Spoke he to her?"

"No, he did not; she did not see him. She is kept a close prisoner, but my Peter hath lost his heart."

I turned and looked at young Peter, and his face looked more monkeyish than ever. A simpering smile played around his protruding mouth. His eyes shone like those of a weazel.

"Well," I said, "what is this to me?"

"This, Roger Trevanion. I want that maid, Nancy Molesworth, brought here to Treviscoe. I want to save her from those Papist savages who would bring ruin upon the maid and upon the country."

"That's nothing to me," I replied; "I avoid women. They are all alike—all cruel, all selfish, all false as hell. Why tell your plans to me?"

"Because," cried young Peter, "if you will bring the sweet maid, Nancy Molesworth, to Treviscoe, you shall have the Trevanion deeds back. I will destroy this paper you gave to Prideaux, and we will forgive a large part of the money you have had from us." And he named a fairly liberal sum.

CHAPTER III. CROSSING THE RUBICON.

I must confess to being startled by this proposal. I had not foreseen it. That I should have to do with any woman formed no part of my plans. As I have said, I hated women; I had not forgotten the lesson I had learnt as a lad. Hence the suddenness of his proposal took me somewhat aback.

But I did not betray my feelings. Instead I walked quietly around the room, occasionally glancing at the two men who watched me closely.

"If I refuse to do this," I said presently, "you will of course make good your claims on Trevanion?"

Both nodded.

"And if I consent, you will in payment for my services destroy the paper I gave to Prideaux, give me back the deeds, and forgive the amount you mentioned?"

"I will have papers drawn up to that effect," replied old Peter in honeyed tones. "I will always be a friend to you, and render you any little services in my power. You are but thirty-two. Think what a gay life you could live!"

I saw what was in his mind. He thought I should continue my spendthrift habits, and that as a natural consequence he would soon possess the deeds again. But I said nothing. There was no need that I should. Besides at that moment I felt a great desire to stay at Trevanion, and I formed a resolution that if ever I got the deeds, I would never let them go out of my possession again.

The matter required thinking about; and heedless of the inquiries I still paced Treviscoe library, trying the while to read the two Trevisas' motives, and understand the whole bearings of the case. I was not long in forming conclusions.

"The Restormel estates are valuable, I suppose?" I said at length.

"There is some very good land on it," replied old Peter. "Molesworth harbour is in it."

"Just so; and you mean that young Peter should marry this maid?" I continued.

"And what then?" cried old Peter. "That's naught to you. You hate all women, you say. You care not what may become of her if you have your deeds back, and become a prosperous man?"

"No!" I replied, shrugging my shoulders. "I care not"; and yet I felt uneasy, I knew not why.

"Besides the maid hates the Killigrews, hates 'em!"

"How do you know?"

"I've found out."

I must confess I did not like the work. The idea that I should take a maid barely twenty-one from the man claiming to be her guardian, and bring her to Treviscoe, the home of these two Trevisas, was repellent to me. I was not over-particular what I did as a rule, but this caused a nasty taste in my mouth. This Nancy Molesworth might marry young Peter, crawling ugly worm as he was, that was nothing to me; what matter it who women married? He might have the Restormel lands too, if he could get them. Still, although I had given myself pretty much over to the devil during the last few years, I did not like the thought that a Trevanion should do the dirty work of a Trevisa.

Had they told me all? Why should they select me for this mission? And why should they be willing to pay such a big price? There were plenty of gangs of cut-throats in Cornwall who would do their bidding for a less sum.

"You had better place this affair in other hands," I said at length.

"Haven't we offered enough?" cried young Peter.

"It's too dear at any price, I am afraid," I replied, and yet my heart went out toward Trevanion as I spoke.

"You are prepared to give up your old home, discharge your old servants, and become nameless then?" old Peter said, his ferrety eyes fastened on me all the while.

"Others would do it cheaper," I replied; "far cheaper. Tom Belowda's gang would attempt the work for a hundred guineas."

Young Peter lost his head as I spoke. "Could I trust the sweet maid with a gang of roughs?" he cried; "besides, we should place ourselves in their power, they would know our secrets."

"It would pay them not to tell."

"Aye, but a secret held by such ceases to be a secret."

I saw that my game was to hold back, and I continued to do so. The thought of retaining Trevanion grew dearer each minute, but I did not let them know.

"It's a difficult task," I suggested, still continuing to pace the room.

"Not so difficult for such as you," said old Peter coaxingly. "When you Trevanions make up your mind to do a thing you do it, although the furies stand in your way. You are as strong as a horse and if need be could fight like a fiend from the bottomless pit. Not that there would be any need," he added quickly.

"If it is so easy," I retorted, "let young Peter do this himself. He says he loves this maid, and love," I laughed sneeringly, "overcomes all difficulties. This is just the work for a lover. It smacks of far-off days. Let Peter attack the castle like the knights of past ages, and bear off his bride in triumph. He would make a fine sight carrying a maid on his crupper."

I saw a look of vindictive hatred shine from young Peter's eyes, but he said nothing.

"Peter is not fit for such work," was the old man's reply. "He was delicate from a child. Riding wearies him, he has neither the strength nor the daring necessary."

"You say that Killigrew has sons?" I said at length, a new thought flashing into my mind.

"Yes."

"Many?"

"Five."

"Be they weaklings like you, or strong fighting men?" I said, turning to young Peter.

"Strong men, giants," he said quickly, and then he tried to qualify his words as though he were afraid that difficulties would hinder me.

For the first time I found pleasure in the thought of accepting the mission. It fired my blood to think of doing battle with these sturdy Killigrews. They were Papists too, and I had been taught to hate them from my childhood. I longed for some reckless work to do. At first it had seemed tame and mean to carry away a chit of a maid from Endellion Castle, and take her to Treviscoe, that she might become the wife of Peter Trevisa. I surmised, too, that young Peter thought quite as much of Restormel as he did of the maid. But to go into a house where there were five young fellows who were giants, and take away a maid who was closely guarded, aroused all my love for adventure.

"What is this Endellion Castle?" I asked. "Is it one of the old Cornish fortresses?"

"Part of the castle still stands," replied young Peter. "The grandfather of the present Colman Killigrew built the present house adjoining it."

"It is well guarded, I suppose?"

"Yes," replied young Peter reluctantly. "Colman Killigrew and all his sons are rebels at heart. In his father's days he and his family supported King James; they long for a Catholic to be on the throne, and there is a rumour that they are planning against our good King George."

"Hath anything been proved against them?"

"No, not proved, but matters look suspicious. Rumour saith, that should there be a rebellion he could command five hundred swords. There is a strong Papist feeling in the neighbourhood of Endellion."

"And the maid, is she a Papist?"

"Her father, Godfrey Molesworth, was a strong Protestant, but Heaven only knows what they have persuaded her to be."

This information caused new thoughts to come into my mind, and I determined to remember what he had told me.

"Are Colman Killigrew and his sons beloved by the neighbouring families?" I asked presently.

"He is both beloved and hated. Some of the Catholics are his friends, but others mistrust him sorely."

These matters came out slowly. Evidently young Peter did not care about discussing them. Perchance he was afraid lest I should shrink from trying to carry out his plans when I knew them.

I was silent for some time. I pondered much over what I had heard.

"All this should be nothing to thee, Roger, lad," said old Peter, becoming more and more familiar in his tones. "All the Trevanions for many generations have sought to help the oppressed. Thou hast the blood of thy fathers within thee. This is work worthy of the best. Besides, if thou wilt do this, both Peter and myself will befriend thee always. Peter's heart went out after the maid, and he longed to set her free. She is suffering, Roger, suffering greatly. Killigrew will rob her, and sell her to one of his brutal sons. Such a work as we asked will win the blessing of Heaven."

"Have done with this Quaker talk!" I cried. "I care nothing about such things. Perchance the maid will be better off where she is than with you; perchance, too, one of these Killigrews will make a better husband for her than your puling lad."

"Nay, think not so," cried the old man; "Peter is a good lad, weak in body, but quick in thinking, and hath a kind heart."

"I like a fight," I blurted out; "I do not object to a rough bit of work, but——" I mused.

"But what, Roger, lad?"

"I hate aught that hath to do with women. This matter presents many difficulties. I must get to speak with the maid, if she be as you say. If not, I must carry her off by force. Anyway I shall have a wench on my hand for days. I dislike this. I am no woman's man, and I should repel her by my roughness."

Peter's eyes glistened. "But you would be kind to her?" he asked eagerly.

"Kind!" I replied. "I would always treat a helpless maid with respect. No man who is a man could be cruel to these poor things, who cannot fight for themselves. Still one cannot trust women. Mostly they would betray a man at a pinch even though he were fighting for their welfare."

"That is why we are anxious to have such a man as you to help us," cried old Peter. "If we gave this to some, my lad would be eating his heart away with jealousy. He would think they would be plotting to take her away from him. But you, Roger, you have been badly treated by women, therefore——"

"I should pay them scant courtesy," I interrupted.

"I know a Trevanion would always treat a well-born maid as she should be treated. Besides——"

"Besides what?"

"If you promise to bring the maid here, you will bring her."

"Yes," I replied grimly, "if I promise."

"You are as clever as a lawyer, and strong as a horse," wheedled old Peter, "and a Trevanion always keeps his promise."

To this I vouchsafed no reply, but I saw the old man's purpose in trying to flatter me.

"Will you promise?" cried young Peter at length, after much more talk.

I considered the matter again. I thought of the Trevanion deeds, and the forgiveness of half the debts my father had contracted. On the other hand, I pictured myself going into the world a landless wanderer, after having turned all the old servants adrift. It was not pleasant. Then I tried to realize the work these two Trevisas wanted me to do. Should I bring a maid, badly as she might be treated by the Killigrews (and I much doubted this portion of their narrative), a maid well born and beauteous, to be the wife of a crawling worm like young Peter Trevisa? But this did not trouble me much. What did I care who she married? Killigrew, a giant cut-throat, or Trevisa, a weak-chested, knocked-kneed, sensual little vermin?—it mattered not. Neither did I trouble much as to who possessed the Restormel lands. Still I was a Trevanion, and a Trevanion hates dirty work—at least of that kind.

On the other hand, I loved adventure. The thought of spiting these Killigrews and taking the maid from them, even though I knew little of them, except that they were Papists, stirred my blood. True I did not understand all the motives of the Trevisas in selecting me to do this work, but that did not matter. I doubted much if the maid would consent to marry young Peter, although I brought her to Treviscoe. That, however, was not my business. Old Peter regarded his son as a handsome man, with brains enough for two; I knew him to be a flat-chested, ugly weakling with plenty of cunning.

"Have you made up your mind?" asked old Peter at length.

"Yes," I cried.

"You will undertake the work?"

"On conditions."

He got up from his seat and held out his hand to me. "Let's shake hands on it," he cried.

"Not yet," I replied; "I must name my conditions first."

"Well, what are they, Roger, lad? Don't be unreasonable."

"First," I replied, "this business will need money. It may take many weeks. I know not what will happen to me on the way. I must not go to Endellion a moneyless man."

"We have thought of that," replied young Peter; "there are a hundred guineas in this bag."

"That is well," I replied; "it is a stingy allowance, but it may suffice. The next condition I make is, that you draw up a writing stating what you have just promised me."

"It shall be done."

"Then send for Mr. Hendy, my attorney, without delay."

"Why?"

"That it may be placed in his hands."

"I—I cannot consent to that," cried old Peter. "I want no other person to know our plans. I will keep the paper safely, lad, quite safely."

I thought I saw his cunning now. If they kept the agreement, I should be quite powerless to claim my own, even if I did my work. I saw, too, why they were so willing to offer liberal terms.

"If you refuse, I refuse," I replied. "I stake everything on this, Peter Trevisa. If I fail to bring that maid here to Treviscoe, it will mean that I am a dead man, for I swear that I will not give up while I am alive. If I promise, I promise." This I said firmly, for I knew the danger which attended my work.

"But I will do right, you may trust me," wheedled the old man.

"Maybe," I replied; "do as I say, or I refuse. I simply demand that you write the matter down and sign it. On conditions that I bring the maid, Nancy Molesworth, to Treviscoe, within two months, you give me back the Trevanion deeds, the paper I gave Prideaux, and a declaration that you forgive me the money you mentioned. If I do not bring the maid here in that time, it shall be returned to you, and you can destroy it."

He tried to wriggle out of this, and brought forward as many objections as if he were a lawyer. But I did not yield, and so at length, doubtless believing they would be able to get the better of me, even if I succeeded in my mission, he promised.

"Let us send for Lawyer Hendy at once, and then the matter will be settled," he said, as though he were thinking of means whereby he could keep me in his power.

"Not yet," I said; "there is yet another condition."

"No, no!" he cried; "I have made no more conditions."

"This will have to be complied with," I replied with a laugh, for to see these men yielding to my terms made me merry.

"What more do you want?" asked old Peter after many words.

"I demand that Lawyer Hendy shall manage Trevanion while I am away," I said. "If I do not return in two months you may conclude that I am dead. In that case I demand that certain sums of money be given to the servants who have served our family for many years." These sums I named, also the servants to whom they were to be given.

"I agree to the first part of the condition, not the second," cried old Peter.

"Why?" I asked. "Do you expect me to fail? Do you think I shall be killed? Is the expedition so dangerous? A little while ago you said it was very easy, and that I should be sure to succeed."

"But it is not fair," whined he. "In that case I should lose much money for nothing."

"And I risk everything. You will have to do this only in case of my death. I may lose my life, and you refuse to lose a few paltry guineas."

"I tell you I will not!" he cried.

"Very well, then you may get some one else to do your work."

"Then I will have Trevanion. Every stick, every field, every jot and tittle will be mine, and you will have to leave the county a vagrant," shrieked the old man.

"No," I said firmly. "I will go to Endellion on my own account. Possibly the maid might bring me fortune."

"But you promised you would not," pleaded young Peter.

"I promised nothing of the sort. I said I would tell no man. Neither will I."

"But you hate women," he continued; "you have refused your lawyer to marry a woman with money, even although it might save your estates!"

I laughed aloud, for this speech was uttered in a whining, yet savage way, just like a dog who is afraid whines, showing its teeth all the time.

"I did not know then what I know now," I said with glee, for it was a pleasant thing to see these scheming money-grubs having the worst of a game.

They wriggled and twisted finely for some time, and then consented, as I knew they would, for I saw from the beginning that they had concocted a scheme which would mean much profit to them. Besides I believe that young Peter was really much in love with the maid Nancy Molesworth. So Lawyer Hendy was sent for, old Peter trying to ply me with wine the meanwhile. In this he did not succeed, however, for I felt I must not lose my head, and thus be led to do foolish things.

We drew up the papers as I had stipulated; they were signed by both Peter and his son, and Lawyer Hendy was given full instructions.

On leaving, I took the money old Peter had offered me and counted it carefully.

"You will do your best, Roger; you will not break your promise?" he said tremulously.

"I do not break promises," I replied.

"When will you start?"

"To-morrow morning!"

"God bless you, Roger."

"I am not sure He can while I do your work," I replied.

CHAPTER IV. MY JOURNEY TO ENDELLION.

The next morning I started to ride to the home of the Killigrews. I could see that Daniel sorely wanted to accompany me, but I decided not to take him. In nine cases out of ten a man does work better when unencumbered. Mostly people who pretend to help fail to understand what is in one's mind, and as a consequence generally bungle things grievously. I did not want this matter bungled. The more I thought about it the more was I determined to see the thing through successfully. The picture of living at Trevanion, practically unharassed by debts, became more pleasant each hour. Besides as a race we were not given to bungling, and although I was little in love with the thought of having a maid for a companion, I gloried in the prospect of measuring wits, and if needs be swords, with these sturdy Killigrews. I therefore mounted my favourite horse which I called "Chestnut," on account of his colour; a horse the like of which was difficult to be matched. He was going five, stood over sixteen hands high, and was of a build which united strength with speed to such a degree that half the squires in the county wanted him. I had been sorely tempted to sell him, but had never yielded to the temptation. I had always prided myself on riding the best horse in the county, and Chestnut was certainly second to none. In spite of my unusual weight he carried me easily, he would run until he dropped, and possessed tremendous staying power. Added to this, I had seen him foaled, had fed him with my own hands, and when Jenkins, the famous horse-breaker, declared to me his inability to "break him in," I had undertaken the task myself, and had succeeded. I did it by a new method, too, for I never struck him a blow. I do not attribute this to any special power I possess over horses generally, for Jenkins would in nine cases out of ten succeed where I failed. The truth was, Chestnut, when he was a colt, regarded me as a sort of playfellow and learnt to love me. Being an intelligent animal, he soon understood me, indeed he had a curious instinct by which he seemed to divine my thoughts and feelings. I carefully armed myself, and placed in my saddle-bags as much ammunition as I could conveniently carry. I did not know whether I should stand in need of these things, but I thought it well to be prepared. The county was infested by robbers, and as I carried a large amount of money I thought it well to test my sword-blade and pistols. Thus equipped I had no fear. I was a fair shot, and generally held as a strong swordsman.

"When may I expect 'ee back then, sur, makin' so bold?" asked Daniel as I mounted.

"I don't know, Daniel; don't expect me until you see me. As you know, I have given you full particulars, and Mr. Hendy will visit you constantly."

"You be goin' into danger, Master Roger," said the serving-man tremulously. "Laive me go weth 'ee, sur."

Daniel was nearly fifty years of age, and had served our family all his life, so he had been allowed to take liberties.

"Ould Smiler es jist aitin his 'ead off, sur, and I baint no good 'ere when you be gone. Taake me weth 'ee, sur. You wa'ant be sorry."

As I said, I did not think it best to take him, so I rode away leaving him disconsolate. On my way to the home of the Killigrews I passed through Truro, Tresillian, Ladock, and Mitchell, but nothing happened worthy of note. I did not hurry, rather I rode slowly, for I wanted to enjoy the quiet of the day. Everywhere new life was appearing. Everywhere, too, the spirit of rest seemed to reign. In those days I did not think much about the beauties of early spring, but I could not help being impressed by the scene around Tresillian. The little arm of the river enclosed by wooded hills was indeed fair to look upon. I rested my horse at the gates of Tregothnan, where the Boscawens lived and looked with somewhat envious eyes on the long line of yew-trees which bordered the drive, and remembered that I had once loved the maid who was related to the people who dwelt in the great house in the distance.

I did not get beyond St. Columb that day, and, on arriving there, tried to find out something about the Killigrews. I had not gone far enough north, however. The main branch of the family, as all the country knows, had lived at St. Erme, about five miles north of Truro, also at Falmouth, but it had died out. Colman Killigrew was the descendant of one Benet Killigrew, who, although he did not, like some of his relations, become a courtier, was sufficiently fortunate to marry a Mistress Scobell Rosecarrick, of Endellion, in which Endellion Castle was situated. Through her this branch of the Killigrews became possessed of a pleasant estate, and also became allied to an ancient race. This I had learnt by reading Carew's survey of Cornwall after I had returned from Peter Trevisa. Of their present condition, however, I knew nothing, neither could I discover anything about them at St. Columb.

Arriving at Wadebridge the next day, my attention was attracted by an inn called "The Molesworth Arms." As the name of the maid I had promised to take from Endellion to Treviscoe was Molesworth, and as it was moreover the chief inn in the town, I decided to rest there and partake of some refreshment. Although it was scarcely noon, I found the common room of the inn filled with a number of people. Mostly the occupants were farmers, although I fancied one or two of them belonged to the gentlefolk of the neighbourhood. I did not pay particular attention to them, however, because my interest became centred in a hale-looking old man, who was evidently a travelling story-teller and minstrel. He had finished his singing, and was now telling a story before taking his departure. There is no need that I should repeat the tale here; at the same time I mention the incident because I was impressed by the wondrous way he had of making us all look at him. One could have heard a pin drop when he was speaking. I was fascinated by him too, partly, I expect, because I did not understand him. As all the county knows, a tale-teller, or a wandering singer, who is usually called "a droll," is no unusual thing. Many of them had visited Trevanion, and I had always given them food and a bed. Mostly they came when the house was full of visitors, and regaled the company with song and story. But they were mostly of the lower orders of life, and spoke the Cornish dialect. Indeed their stories usually had but little charm apart from the dialect, although occasionally tales were told which were interesting because of their subject-matter. These were generally of a supernatural order, and described the dead arising or spirits coming back to the world to bring some message to their friends. I had never seen this man at Trevanion, however, neither did he belong to the class who had visited the house. It is true he spoke the Cornish dialect, but at times he let words drop which showed he knew something of learning. He had an air of authority with him, too, which suggested that he lived on terms of equality with men of position. At least this was what I thought.

He paid no attention to me, save to give me one glance, and when he had finished his story said he must move on.

"Stay till even', Uncle Anthony," said the innkeeper, "do 'ee now. A passel of people will be comin'."

"No," replied Uncle Anthony, "I have promised to be twelve miles away by to-night, so I mus' be goin'."

"Tich yer 'arp afore you go, Uncle," pleaded the innkeeper.

"I sha'ant, I tell 'ee," replied Anthony.

A number of coins were thrown to the droll, and then shouldering his harp he left the inn.

"'Ee's a cure es Uncle Anthony," said the innkeeper, turning to me; "'ee es for sure, sur."

"Who is he?" I asked. "He does not seem like a common droll."

"He ed'n for sure, sur. I've 'eerd that Uncle do come of a rich family, but law, you ca'ant git nothin' from un. Everybody es glad to zee un. He's a clain off zinger, and can play butiful, 'ee can. Which way ded you cum then, sur, makin' sa bould."

"From southward," I replied.

"Far, sur?"

"From Truro."

"Aw, I thot you wos a bit of a furriner. I cud zee you ded'n belong to thaise paarts. Goin' fur, sur?"

"Probably to Bodmin town," I replied, for I did not feel like taking the talkative innkeeper into my confidence.

"Aw, Uncle Anthony es well knawed in thais paarts, 'ee es for sure. And 'ee d' knaw a lot too. Wot Uncle doan knaw ed'n much use to nobody."

I stayed at the inn till late in the afternoon, during which time I plied the innkeeper with many questions, but I learnt nothing about the Killigrews more than I had hitherto discovered; then I mounted Chestnut and rode towards Endellion, in which parish the maid Nancy Molesworth lived.

I could not help noticing what a pretty spot Wadebridge was as I rode over the bridge, after which the town was called. The tide was high, and several good-sized vessels lay at the riverside. But I had naught to do with them, so stopping only to take a glance at the river as it broadened out towards Padstow, and again in the other direction as its waters lapped the banks near the little village of Egloshayle, I rode on towards St. Minver.

It must be remembered that it was the twenty-sixth day of March, and so daylight began to fade soon after six o'clock, and as I wanted to reach the home of the Killigrews before dark, I rode rapidly. I puzzled my brains sorely to know by what pretext I could enter the house, also under what name I should present myself. I dared not tell them that I was a Trevanion, for my people were well known. We were well known to the Killigrews who had lived at Pendennis Castle, also to those who possessed a place a few miles from Truro. Moreover, all the Trevanions were stout Protestants, and as Colman Killigrew and his sons were rank Papists, I dared not appear to them under this guise. My pride rebelled against assuming a false name and professing a false religion, but I had promised Peter Trevisa, and as in those days I was not over-particular about such matters I vowed to let nothing stand in the way of my seeing the business through.

My purpose was to stay at Endellion several days, else how could I accomplish my mission? In order to do this I must in some way establish some claim upon the owner thereof. There would be no difficulty in staying one night, or even two, for the laws of Cornish hospitality made this easy. No house of importance would close its doors to a traveller, be he rich or poor. I determined, therefore, to pretend that I was a member of an obscure branch of the Penryn family, who were well known to be Catholics; that I was the owner of a small Barton, and that I was anxious to see a Catholic king on the throne of England. That I had heard rumours of the probability of the grandson of King James coming to England, and that could a leader be found I might render assistance to the Catholic cause.

Beyond this I decided upon nothing. If questions were asked me, I must trust to my wits. I determined to keep a cool head and open eyes. If the worst came to the worst I could fight with the best, indeed I rather hoped for difficult work.

Presently I saw the tower of Endellion Church. It was on a little hillside, while all around the country was bare, as far as trees were concerned. I rode towards the little village, and seeing a strapping maid, I stopped and spoke to her.

"Do you know where Squire Killigrew lives, my pretty maid?" I asked.

She laughed in my face, revealing fine white teeth and shining blue eyes.

"Iss, sur. Endellion."

"This is Endellion, is it not?" I said, pointing to the church.

"This is the Church Town, this is. Endellion es dree miles from we, right over ginst the say."

"The Killigrews live there, you say? Do you know them?"

"Knaw 'em. Who doan't?"

"I don't, but I want to see them."

The maid stared at me as though she were afraid, then she said almost fearfully.

"Doan't 'ee knaw 'em?"

"No," I replied.

"Do they knaw you?"

"No."

"Then doan't 'ee go, sur. They'll kill 'ee, sur. They be terble, sur. They taake no noatice of the passon, nor the bible, sur."

I saw that the maid was in earnest. No one was near, for I had not entered the village, so I dismounted and stood by her side.

"You seem a good maid," I said, "and I believe you would not tell a lie. What know you of these Killigrews?"

"I'm feared to tell 'ee, sur. Nearly everybody es feared to go there. The 'ouse es full ov rubbers. Say rubbers, and land rubbers. People miles round 'ave bin rubbed, and murdered, and people do zay tes they. But we ca'ant tell. And everybody es feared to tackle 'em. They be fighters, terble fighters. Some ov 'em do ride ere zumtimes like maazed people. Doan't 'ee go 'mong 'em, sur, doan't 'ee now.

"Yes, I must go."

"Then taake care ov yezelf, sur. You be very big and strong, sur; and do car a sword. But doan't 'ee vex 'em."

"I'll be careful. Is that all you know?"

"That's oall, sur."

"And yonder is the road?" I said, pointing northwards.

"Iss, sur, that's ev et."

I gave the maid a crown piece and a kiss, whereupon she blushed finely, but curtsied like one well reared, as I believe she was.

"Whan you git to the crossways, sur, turn to the right. The left road do laid to Rosecarrick. Do 'ee be careful, sur, an' doan't 'ee vex 'em."

I laughed as I mounted my horse. "I'll remember," I said; "what is your name, my maid?"

"Jennifer Lanteglos, sur," and she curtsied again as I rode away.

"Evidently Jennifer Lanteglos is afraid of the Killigrews," I thought as I rode away. It was now becoming dusk, but I felt sure I could easily cover the three miles before dark. I had not gone a mile, when I saw a man tramping along the lane. I stopped as I overtook him. I saw that he was the droll I had seen at Molesworth Arms at Wadebridge.

"Uncle Anthony," I said, using the term I had heard the innkeeper use, for the term "uncle" is one of respect towards elderly people, "go you my way?"

"What a question," retorted the old man. "How do I know ef you doan't tell me where you be goin'?"

"I am going to Squire Colman Killigrew's at Endellion," I replied.

"Do 'ee think you'll git in?" laughed Uncle Anthony.

"Yes," I replied, "the Killigrews are of an old Cornish family, they will give shelter to a traveller."

He eyed me keenly. "A traveller! Ugh! a purty traveller. But doan't 'ee be sa sure of gittin' into Endellion!"

"Go you there?"

"Iss," he replied.

"Then if you can get shelter, why not I?"

"I—I?" he retorted sharply. "I go everywhere. Nobody'll zay no to ould Ant'ny. I zing, an' tell taales, an' shaw 'em wizard's tricks, I do."

"Then if we go as fellow-travellers, both will be taken in."

"I zeed 'ee at Wadebridge," he said. "You come from a long way off, you do. Wa's yer name, young squire?"

"Roger Penryn."

"Penryn, Penryn," he repeated the name slowly, and looked at me again. "Iss, we'll be fellow-travellers. I'll take 'ee to Endellion."

I did not understand his behaviour, but I determined to make the best use of him that I could. The innkeeper at Wadebridge had told me that every house was open to Uncle Anthony, for in country places where entertainment was scarce he was regarded as a godsend.

"You look tired, Uncle," I said; "get on my horse, and ride the remaining distance."

He did not speak, but when I had dismounted he prepared to climb on to Chestnut.

"It's a long time since I was on the back of a 'oss like this," he remarked when he was seated.

"And you would not remain long on," I replied, "if I was not here to keep Chestnut in order."

He opened his mouth as if to contradict me sharply, but seeming to think better of it, simply asked me to hand his harp to him.

"I can carry it," I assured him.

"No one carries that harp but me," he replied sharply; "the devil wud git into un, if other hands than mine did hould un."

So I handed him the instrument, more and more puzzled at his manner of speech. I walked slowly by Chestnut's head, who seemed to resent his change of rider, but a word from me kept him quiet, after which no conversation took place till I saw a large stone gateway.

"What's yon?" I asked Anthony.

"The gateway to the place where the Killigrews do live," he replied.

I had hardly opened the gate when I heard a tramping of feet and a hurried sound of voices near. Immediately a rough hand was laid on my arm, and I saw that we were surrounded by several men. It was now nearly dark, and I could not well distinguish who had attacked us. Bidding Chestnut be still I freed myself in a moment, and drew my sword.

"No," cried Uncle Anthony. "Doan't 'ee knaw me, Clement Killigrew; doan't 'ee knaw Uncle Anthony, Benet, Colman?"

"Down," cried a strong deep voice. "Uncle Anthony on horseback! What means this?"

"Visitors to Endellion, Benet; a supper and a bed!" replied the droll.

"A supper and bed for thee, and welcome, Uncle Anthony," was the reply, "but for this jackanapes,—no, we keep no open house for such."

"Jackanapes yourself," I cried hotly, for I could ill brook such words. "You carry swords, come on then one at a time, and we will see who is a jackanapes."

But no swords were drawn. Instead they looked at me keenly.

"Is this horse thine?"

"It is."

"Why let old Uncle Anthony ride on him then?"

"That is my affair, not yours."

"Know you to whom you speak?"

"I thought I did at first. I was told that this is the entrance to Colman Killigrew's house, and I thought you might be Killigrews. But they be gentlemen, and know decent ways, so I judge you cannot be they."

A general laugh followed this sally, and then one of them spoke in low tones to Uncle Anthony.

"We have been mistaken," said one presently. "If you bear the name of Penryn, come to Endellion, and welcome. We may know your business later on. But we live a rough life here, and make not friends easily."

"But they be cutthroats, footpads, who attack a man unawares," I replied.

"And we be Killigrews, Roger Penryn, for such is the name Uncle Anthony says you have given," was the reply. "We mistook our man, that is all, and beg to tender our apologies for discourteous treatment. We think all the better of you for drawing your sword. But put it up, man, we will conduct you to Endellion. At the same time you must confess that it is not oft that a gentleman dismounts and lets a wandering tale-teller sit on his horse."

"The old man was tired, and——" I did not finish the sentence, for I had become cool again, and I knew I had a difficult game to play, if I would get the better of these wild fellows.

I could not see their faces, but I saw they were strong, well-built men. They carried themselves well, too, and did not slouch along as country squires often do.

Presently I heard the roar of the sea, and soon after saw the dim outline of a large castellated building. Here and there lights twinkled, but altogether it was as gloomy a place as one could well conceive.

"We give you a welcome at Endellion," said one of the Killigrews who had not hitherto spoken. "We be a rough branch of the old family tree, but the same blood flows through our veins."

Some one gave a shrill whistle and a serving-man appeared.

"Take this horse, and see that it is well curry-combed and foddered," was the command.

A minute later, I with the others entered the old house from which, if I accomplished my purpose, I was to take the maid called Nancy Molesworth. My blood tingled at the thought of wild adventure; all the same, as I saw these sturdy men by my side, I very much doubted the outcome of the business.

CHAPTER V. MY FIRST NIGHT AT ENDELLION.

I had barely time to take note of the house on entering. In the dim light I could just see the grim gray walls on the outside and the great hall within. But nothing appeared to me with distinctness. The strident voices of the Killigrews had the effect of making me keep my hand on the hilt of my sword. I remember, too, that my heart beat faster than its wont, while both my eyes and ears seemed preternaturally sharp. Nowhere was a woman to be seen, and although I was no lover of women, especially of those who belong to that class with which my people mated, I felt that a house filled with rough men was no desirable residence for a gentlewoman.

Presently I was ushered into the dining-hall, a huge oak-paneled room. At the head of the table sat an old man. He had long white hair and beard, and beneath his rugged forehead, and overshadowed by bristling eyebrows, gleamed a pair of piercing black eyes. He arose as I entered, and I saw that he was well on towards seventy. "A warm welcome, Roger Penryn," he said. "From what I hear my sons played a rough game at the gates yonder. I am sorry for this. The truth is, they thought that the Hanson varlets were playing them a trick. But enough of that. A man of your stamp bears no ill-will because of a mistake."

He kept his eyes on me all the time he spoke as if he would read my very soul, and I winced at the thought that I appeared under an assumed name, for I hate fighting an under-handed battle. At the same time I was sure that had I appeared as a Trevanion, I should have been ill-received.

"It is but little wonder in these rough times, that suspicion is aroused," I said. "There are many rumours of treason afloat in my part of the country. Indeed, Hugh Boscawen is reported to be raising an army to put down a rebellion there at this time."

He nodded his head, still eyeing me keenly.

"Know you Hugh Boscawen?" he asked.

"Not well," I replied, "but I have seen him."

"And have thought of joining his ranks?" he asked.

"Nay, a Penryn strikes not a blow for the House of Hanover, when the real King of England is perhaps eating his heart away in France, yonder."

"Ah, say you so?" he cried eagerly. He seemed to be about to say more, but checked himself. "We will not talk of these things now," he said; "perchance when you have been here a few hours we can discuss such matters. Besides, here come my sons. You are a strapping fellow, Roger Penryn, but methinks my Benet is taller."

A servant entered bearing a huge haunch of beef, another followed bearing other things, and then all being ready we fell to right heartily.

Old Colman Killigrew talked pleasantly with me as we ate, and when the meal was over he pressed wine upon me. But I had passed the age of hot-blooded boyhood, and, knowing the work I had to do, drank cautiously, for a man filled with wine has a loose tongue and an unwary head.

"Hath old Uncle Anthony supped?" asked Colman Killigrew presently. "Let him come in when he is ready."

I was glad to have the old man say this, for I was becoming weary of the talk of the young Killigrews. They drank freely, and grew heedless as to the language they used. For, careless as I was in those days, I loved not to hear men speak of maidens as though they were brute beasts. I have also discovered that men, when they live away from the society of women altogether, grow churlish. I had seen this in my own life, although I had not fallen so low as these men of Endellion.

One among these sons, however, was different from the rest. He was neither tall nor handsome like his brothers. I discovered that he was called Otho, after an ancient member of the race, and seemed to be regarded as the wise-man of the family. He had more learning too than the others, and spoke with more taste. He was not pleasant to look upon; he had a short bull-neck, and there was a round upon his back which almost approached a hump. I saw, however, that his hands were large and his wrists thick. Moreover, his legs, while ill-shaped, were thickset and evidently powerful. He did not drink freely like the others, nor did he talk much, but he watched me closely.

When Uncle Anthony entered, I noticed that he was regarded with great respect. He had evidently visited the house often, and knew the ways of the inmates. He had a seat of honour beside old Colman Killigrew too, and they conversed together in low tones, while the sons plied me with questions about my life in the South.

Presently a number of the serving people came in, and with them three women-folk. They were ill-favoured, however, not like the kitchen maiden I had kept at Trevanion. Two out of the three were past mid-age, too, while the third was a large-limbed wench, angular and awkward, but evidently as strong as a man. So far, not a sign of Nancy Molesworth was visible.

"Now, Uncle Anthony, a song and a story!" cried Otho Killigrew.

"Shall it be a little zong or a little stoary first, then?" asked Uncle Anthony in broad Cornish.

"A song first, then a story, and then a galloping song and dance to finish up with," replied Otho.

Uncle Anthony swept his eyes quickly around the room; then, standing up, he, bowed towards Colman Killigrew.

"I drink the 'ealth of the 'ouse," he said, bending towards the owner of Endellion. "The Killigrews 'ave been called 'A grove ov aigels' (eagles); they 'ave flied 'igh; they 'ave stood avore kings, they 'ave. Ther've bin wisht times laately, but a better day es comin'. The raace 'ave allays bin great fer lovin' and drinkin' and fightin', and their sun es risin' again. I can zee et."

"May it come quickly!" cried Benet, a giant of a fellow. "There are no women to love around here—they are afraid of us; but drinking is always good; as for fighting, I long for the clash of steel."

All the brothers echoed this, save Otho; he looked steadily into the huge fireplace, and spoke not. From that moment I felt sure that he was the one selected to wed Nancy Molesworth.

Uncle Anthony touched his harp-strings and began to sing a plaintive song. I had heard it often before; but he sung with more feeling than did the drolls who had visited Trevanion. It was moreover peculiar to Cornwall, and, interspersed as it was by Uncle Anthony's explanations, caused even the hard-featured serving-women of Endellion to wipe their eyes. I will write it down here, for the song is being forgotten, while the fashion of receiving wandering story-tellers is fast dying out. This is how he sung it:

"Cowld blaws the wind to-day, sweet'art,

Cowld be the draps ov raain;

The fust trew-luv that ever I 'ad,

In the greenwud 'ee wos slain.

"'Twas daown in the gaarden-green, sweet'art,

Where you and I did waalk;

The purtiest vlower that in the gaarden growed

Es rinkled (withered) to a staalk.

"The staalk will graw no laives, sweet'art,

The vlowers will ne'er return:

And now my oan love es dead and gone,

Wot can I do but mourn?"

"The pore maid did zing this," explained Uncle Anthony. "She was in a wisht way, for maidens be vit fer nothin' 'cipt they've got a man by 'em. The man es the tree, an' the maid es an ivy-laif, and tha's oal 'bout it. But you do knaw, my deears, that when a man 'ave bin dead one year, 'ee do allays cum back. Tha's religion, ed'n et then? Zo—

"A twelvemonth an' a day bein' gone,

The sperrit rised and spok:

"'My body es clay cowld, sweet'art,

My breath smells 'evvy an' strong;

And ef you kiss my cowld white lips,

Your time will not be long.'

"Ah, but thicky maid wos a true maid. She cudden rest till she 'ad kissed the booy she loved; and w'en she'd kissed 'im once, she loved him more and more. Zo she cried:

"Oa, wawn mooar kiss from yer dear cowld lips,

One kiss is oal I craave;

Oa, wawn mooar kiss from yer dear cowld lips,

An' return back to yer graave."

After this, Uncle Anthony sung in a low, wailing tone a stormy kind of duet between the maid and what he called her "booy's sperrit," who tried to make her accompany him to the world of shadows, and after much weeping, she departed with her lover.

"And zo et es, my deears," remarked Uncle Anthony, "that trew luv is stronger'n death."

"That's a wisht zong, sure enough, Uncle Anthony," remarked one of the women, who at such times were allowed especial liberty. "Strick up summin' purty and sweet and lively." Whereupon he sung a song about a sailor who courted a rich nobleman's daughter "worth five hundred thousan' in gould." This pleased them much, after which he started to tell a story. At first he did not interest me, for my mind was filled with many things; but presently I saw that his tale was original. He brought in our meeting in the Molesworth Arms at Wadebridge, and insinuated many surmises concerning me. He took a long time to tell the story, for he weaved in a love episode, a duel, the appearance of a ghost and a wizard, besides many droll sayings peculiar to the county; but through it all I could see that he aimed at me, and gave hints that he suspected I had other motives in coming to Endellion than those which I had revealed. He described me as an unknown cavalier who wore a mask; he also spoke of a wise man whose eyes pierced the mask. It is true he dated the story in the far back past; all the same, I could not help seeing his meaning. I doubt whether any of the listeners other than myself saw his drift—but I felt sure that he had suspicions concerning me. Whether his feelings were friendly or no, I could not gather; neither could I understand his motive in so turning the story. The tale was well liked, however, for the old man weaved it well. He ended it by telling us that the maid wedded the man she loved, and that when she was on her way to church, she trod on flowers strewn by angel hands, while angel voices sung songs of hope and gladness to her.

"And what became of the masked cavalier?" asked Otho Killigrew when he had finished.

"I'll tell 'ee that next time I come this way," replied Uncle Anthony. "That's a paart of another stoary."

"And the wise man?" I asked,—"what became of him?"

"The wise man, Maaster Roger Penryn—for tha's the naame you towld me to call 'ee—es livin' still. A trewly wise man don' never die. 'Ee do live top 'igh plaaces, my deear. A wise man do mount a 'igh rock, and rest in paice. Around 'im es the wild, treacherous waaste, but up there 'ee's saafe. 'Appy be they who in trouble seek the shelter of the wise man's 'igh plaace. 'Tes the shadda of a great rock in a weary land."

I pondered much about the old man's tale, and made up my mind that, if I could, I would speak with him alone. I decided that he was not what he seemed; but how I could converse with him again was not easy to discover, for he expressed a desire to retire, and Otho Killigrew continued to watch me closely.

Before I was in any way able to decide what to do, I knew by the baying of the hounds outside and the sounds at the door that some visitor was approaching. At a look from Colman Killigrew, all the serving-people left the room. Uncle Anthony also went out with them, saying that he would retire to rest.

The newcomer turned out to be one John Polperro, a fair-spoken young fellow of about five-and-twenty. I saw at a glance that he was a gentleman, although of no great force of character. He was dressed in accordance with the latest foppery of the times, and was, I thought, mighty careful about his attire. His face was somewhat weak, but there was no vice, no meanness in it. I presently discovered, too, that on occasion he could speak boldly.

Colman Killigrew's welcome was by no means warm, while each of the sons looked at him distrustfully, almost savagely. But he did not seem to heed their evident dislike.

"I would like a word with you alone," he said to the squire.

"I am alone," was the reply. "I have no secrets from my sons."

"But there is a stranger among you," retorted Polperro.

"He is a friend who honours us by staying with us. He is of the same religion and hath the same interests."

I winced at this, and rose to leave, but Colman Killigrew, by a gesture, bid me remain.

"But this is not an affair for the ears of all," retorted Polperro.

"I have no affairs with you that may not be discussed by all here," was the cool response.

I wondered at this, for I could not fathom the old man's design. Perhaps he thought that by treating me as one of his family, even though I was a stranger, he would cause me to be more obedient to his wishes in the future. I listened eagerly, however, for I remembered why I was there.

"Be it so, then," replied Polperro with a touch of anger in his voice. "You know, then, that I have met Mistress Nancy Molesworth?"

The old man nodded.

"I love her."

Colman Killigrew betrayed no emotion whatever, but the sons made a movement expressive of scorn and derision.

Polperro saw this, and the colour began to mount to his cheeks. I could see, too, that he had difficulty in refraining from angry words; but he mastered himself.

"I have reason to believe that my sentiments are not unrequited."

Still Colman Killigrew was silent.

"You know that a messenger was sent to you. He bore a letter containing an offer of marriage. This you received and read."

The old man nodded.

"This you received and read," repeated John Polperro, "but I cannot think you fairly understood the purport of the letter, otherwise you would have sent back a different answer."

"The answer was plain."

"But curt and uncivil. It was not such an answer as one gentleman may send to another."

"I said that eagles mate not with hawks."

"That is why I cannot think you understood. My family is at least as old as your own."

"On the father's side, perchance—but on the mother's?—Bah! we will not speak of it."

Young John Polperro's hand played nervously with the hilt of his sword; but still he kept his temper under control.

"I am come with my father's consent and approval," he continued; "I am come in person to offer my name and fortune—a name as good as your own, a fortune more than equal to that of the Killigrews."

"I give you the same answer that I gave to your messenger," was the response.

John Polperro still kept outwardly cool.

"Then I have another proposition to make," he continued, but this time his voice took a loftier tone. "I am here to offer Mistress Nancy Molesworth the protection of my father's house. I am here to offer her safety and honour!"

The old man started to his feet. He had been pricked on the quick at last. "What mean you, sir?" he cried.

"It is well known that ever since she came from the convent, she has been afraid to live here!" cried Polperro. "That your sons pay her attention which she hates; that she loathes the thought of living where modesty, virtue, and honour are all outraged!"

I think he was sorry he had uttered these words as soon as they had passed his lips.

All the Killigrews looked as though they would have liked to have struck him dead. On my part, however, I had a feeling of admiration. Courage is always good, even although it be shown at the wrong time. Nothing was said or done, however. They remembered that the man stood in their own house.

"The maid has had but one occasion to speak of her woes to any one," continued Polperro. "You allowed her to visit Mistress Arundell, where she met with a friend she had known at the convent school. There, as you know, it was my good fortune to meet her."

I felt he was a fool. Why could he not have spoken more guardedly? If he wanted to do Mistress Nancy an injury, he could not have accomplished his purpose better. I saw, too, that old Colman Killigrew ground his teeth with rage, and I heard him mutter something about his being mad to let the girl go a-gadding about at people's houses. For a moment I thought he would have answered Polperro angrily; but such was not his plan.

"You stand in my own hall, or it might go hard with you," he said presently. "But enough. You spoke in hot blood, just as a lovesick fool may. Let me also say this, although you deserve not this explanation: Mistress Nancy Molesworth is betrothed to my eldest son Otho according to her father's wish. Therefore her honour is safe, and she will be wedded to one of her own degree."

"Is this by her own will?" cried Polperro.

"A maid's will is like the wind in April," replied the old man, "and is no more to be relied on. But I tell you this, she shall be guarded safely."

"Kept in prison!" retorted Polperro; "and these," looking with scorn on the young men, "will be her gaolers."

He turned to leave the room, but did not flinch at the angry looks bestowed upon him. Benet Killigrew turned to follow him, but he was stopped by his father's word.

"He stands in my own hall, Benet, and must be treated as a guest," he said. "The time may come when the laws of courtesy may not hinder you from giving him the chastisement he deserves."

"That time cannot come too soon for me!" cried John Polperro. "Meanwhile, do not think Mistress Nancy Molesworth is without friends. And besides that, it might be profitable for you to remember——" he did not finish the sentence. Perchance he felt that silence were wise.

"I did not think you would witness such a scene, Roger Penryn," said the old man when he had gone, "for in truth I did not believe the lad had so much spirit."

"He spoke stoutly," I responded, not daring to ask the questions which hung on my lips. "He sadly lacked wisdom, however, and will land himself in trouble if he be not careful."

"I had many things to say to you to-night," remarked old Colman Killigrew, "but they must stand over. I am not as young as I was, and young Polperro's words have ill prepared me to speak on matters which lie near my heart, and I trust to yours also. But the opportunity will come to-morrow."

I bent my head gravely. I was glad he had put off his questionings, for, truth to tell, I dreaded the man. I instinctively felt his eyes probing me. I knew he had been making plans all through the evening to find out who I was, and why I had come northward.

"I will retire to rest," he said; "perchance you, too, will be glad to get to your room?"

"I will go with him," said Otho Killigrew; "it is easy for a stranger to lose his way in this house."

So I said good-night to his brothers, who pressed me to stay among them and drink another bottle of wine, and walked up a broad stairway with Otho by my side.

On reaching the top of the stairway I saw a man walking to and fro; but he seemed to pay no heed to us as we passed by him.

"You will stay a day or two with us, I trust?" remarked Otho.

I answered in the affirmative.

"And then?—go you farther north?"

"That will depend on what your father thinks," I responded.

He gave me a searching glance, but spoke no word more until we reached my bedroom door.

"I am afraid you have had a rough welcome," he said; "but we have the name for a rough people. All the same, we are faithful to our friends."

"Yes," I assented.

"The Killigrews never yet turned their backs upon those who merited their friendship," concluded Otho; "but they never forgive those who betray their trust. Never!"

He uttered the words slowly and distinctly, as was his manner of speech.

"Sleep soundly, Roger Penryn," he said as he bade me good-night. "The Tower of London is not more safely guarded than Endellion."

"It is good of you to tell me," I replied; "but a good sword and a ready hand are all I have needed in the past."

To this he did not reply, and I heard his steps echo along the corridor. He walked slowly, like a man deep in thought. Did he suspect anything, or did my mission make me suspicious?

The room into which I was ushered was plain and bare. The walls were whitewashed, the floor almost wholly uncovered. I sat for a long while on the bed in deep thought, and my musings were not pleasant. I almost regretted having undertaken to do Peter Trevisa's bidding. Not because of the danger. Nay, that was almost the only redeeming feature in the business. And yet I tried to persuade myself that my mission was good. Were not these Killigrews lawless men? Should I not be rendering signal service to the maid Nancy Molesworth by taking her away from a place which, according to Polperro, she loathed? And still I was not satisfied.

Presently I thought I heard a rustling outside. Instantly I went to the door and opened it softly. The corridor was but dimly lighted, but I saw the retreating form of a woman. She did not look a well-bred dame; at the same time she was different from the serving-women I had seen in the hall. I started to follow her; but before I had taken two steps, she turned, and I saw her face. Dim as was the light, her features seemed familiar. Evidently she was a superior kind of serving-maid. In a moment, however, she vanished.

"Ah," I thought, "there is some stairway yonder!" I looked cautiously around before starting to seek it, then stopped. I heard the clank of steel. I saw the man I had passed with Otho Killigrew, still pacing the corridor.

"A sentinel, eh?" I mused; "truly, the place is guarded."

Noiselessly I slid back to my room. The man had not seen me. My stockinged foot touched a piece of paper, which was carefully folded.

Close to my bed the candles flickered in the socket; so, after carefully bolting my door, I made my way towards them. On unfolding the paper I saw one word only. The word was

ROCHE.

CHAPTER VI. THE USES OF A SERVING-MAID.

A few minutes later I was in total darkness. But I did not sleep. My mind was much occupied by what I had seen and heard. I tried to understand the purport thereof, as seemed necessary at such a time. Several facts were plain. Foremost in point of interest was that the maid Mistress Nancy Molesworth was in the house. I fell to thinking about her, and wondered much as to what she was like. From what I gathered, too, she was not indisposed to receive the attention of John Polperro, who had that night asked for her hand in marriage. But that did not trouble me. What should I care whom she married? It was for me to take her to Treviscoe, and thus be freed from my difficulties. The maid's love was nothing to me. That was doubtless as changeable as the wind. I remembered, too, that she was betrothed to Otho Killigrew. Then there were three who wanted her. I laughed as I thought of it. I imagined, however, that Restormel lands had far more to do with the desire to get her than had her beauty or her goodness. The Killigrews, however, for the present possessed her; but they did not reckon upon me. She was well guarded, and perchance the sentinel in the corridor was especially appointed as her watchman. The wench I had seen was perhaps Mistress Nancy Molesworth's serving-woman. But what did that piece of paper mean? What was the purport of the word written thereon? Roche—I would bear it in mind. When morning came I would again examine the thing. Perhaps it would reveal more to me in the light of day.

By and by I fell asleep without having formed any plan of action. But when morning came, my mind was clear and my hand steady.

The window of my room faced the open country. Beneath me was a courtyard, perhaps twenty feet down. There were also rooms above—how high, I could not tell. As I opened the window the clear spring air entered the room, likewise the sound of the sea. I discovered afterwards that, like several others on this northern coast, the house was built close to the cliff; but I could see nothing of it at the time. The sound of the waves was pleasant to me, however, as was the smell of the morning air, and I felt like singing for the very joy of youth, and health, and strength. On remembering my mission, however, I became more thoughtful; and, hastily dressing myself, I found my way towards the dining-hall.

On walking along the corridor, no guard appeared. Evidently his work was regarded as done; but all around me was the hum of voices. There were doubtless eyes and ears around me of which I knew nothing.

Otho Killigrew was coming in from the outside as I came into the entrance hall. He greeted me cordially, although I thought his face looked anxious.

"You rise early, Roger Penryn," he said; "my brothers have not yet appeared."

"The morning air was so sweet that I wanted to drink it to the full," I answered, moving towards the door.

"I will go out with you," said Otho. "Endellion is a quaint old place. Men build not houses so now."

We stood outside, and I looked on the grim gray building. Young Peter Trevisa had described it rightly. An old castle still stood. It was mostly a ruin, but well preserved. The house in which I had slept had been modeled somewhat on the lines of the place which had been reared in the far back past.

"It was built in the old feudal days," remarked Otho, nodding towards the ruin. "The Killigrews are an ancient race."

"But the Killigrews have not always lived here?"

"The Rosecarricks have, and the Killigrews were mixed with them many generations ago. Perhaps that is why the newer part of the house was modeled on the old. I am glad the ruins stand so well. I have discovered many a secret place. I love things old, too."

"Old systems, you mean?"

"Yes, I was not thinking of them then,—but do. I love the feudal system. It is the only way a people can be knitted to a crown."

"But the Killigrews are not all in love with the crown," I suggested meaningly.

"No; we are the only branch of the family who do not pay homage to the new order of things. You are a Catholic, so I can speak freely. We long for a Catholic king to reign. We keep up the feudal system somewhat, too. Our tenants are bound to us; so much so, that we could raise many men to help in a cause we espoused."

I changed the subject, for I saw whither he was drifting.

"The back of the house almost overhangs the cliffs," I said.

"Yes; there be several of a similar nature—Rosecarrick, Trevose, Polwhele, and others. It was thought necessary in the old times."

He accompanied me around the building, talking in his careful measured way all the time, while I examined, as well as I was able, the particular features of the place. We had barely compassed the house when a great clanging bell rang.

On entering the dining-hall we found breakfast prepared; but old Colman Killigrew did not appear. Benet Killigrew met me, and examined me as though he were calculating my strength. I could have sworn that he would have liked to have challenged me to wrestle.

Presently Otho, who had left me, came back, telling me that his father was too unwell to meet me at breakfast, but hoped to be well enough to leave his bed-chamber when evening came; in the mean while, he could trust his sons to assure me of his welcome.

Why, I knew not, but I felt somewhat disturbed at this; but simply expressing my sorrow at his ill health, we sat down to breakfast. What happened during the day was of little moment, only when night came I reflected that never for a minute had I been left alone. Either one or other of the Killigrews had been with me. It might only be a happening, or it might be they had received orders not to allow me out of their sight. Moreover, only one thing of interest had been mentioned, and that appeared of no consequence. It was simply that old Anthony, the droll, had left early. I should have thought nothing of this, only I had made sure that he wanted to speak to me, and had moreover determined to ask him the meaning of the story he had told.

Just before the evening meal I had a few minutes to myself, and was able to reflect calmly on my position. If, as I suspected, the Killigrews had determined to watch me, I must take bold steps at once in order to accomplish my work. In this surmise I was right, as will appear presently. But how to commence, was my difficulty. It was plain that Mistress Nancy was closely watched; and as I had no thought as to what part of the house she was kept, and as she knew naught of me, there appeared no way by which I could speak to her. Besides, even if such chance did occur, how could I approach her? To say the least, I was an impostor, acting a lie in order to maintain my right to Trevanion. That was the thought which galled me. For the rest, I cared nothing; but I did wince at the thought of a Trevanion being afraid to tell his name.

I had almost decided to leave the house at once, and then think of another way to accomplish my work, when I heard the rustle of a woman's dress outside the door. In a second I was in the corridor, and saw the same serving-maid I had seen the previous night. I slipped back into my chamber again immediately, for coming towards her I saw Otho Killigrew.

"Your mistress, Amelia?" said Otho; "she is better disposed to-day, I hope."

"She's fine and wisht," replied the girl. "She do set and mope oall day long. She've bin worse to-day."

"Ah! Do you know why?"

"She seed Maaster John Polperro go way laast night."

Otho uttered a curse.

"She's so loanly, she've nothing to do. She've no books to raid, nor nothin'."

"Tell her I'll go to Rosecarrick this night and bring some for her. I'll take them to her."

"She waan't see 'ee, Maaster Otho," replied the girl earnestly; "but p'r'aps it would soffen 'er ef you wos to git 'er somethin' to raid. And, Maaster Otho."

"Yes, what is it?"

"I wish you would laive me go ovver to Church Town to-night. I waant to see Jennifer, my sister."

"And what will your mistress do meanwhile?"

"She doan't spaik to me when I'm weth 'er, sur. Besides, I waan't be long."

"Very well," replied Otho, after hesitating a little. "When do you wish to go?"

"I might so well go after supper, sur."

"See that your mistress wants nothing before you go."

"Oall right, sur."

Instantly I made up my mind that I would speak to Amelia that night. I felt sure that the maid was sister to Jennifer Lanteglos, whom I had seen the previous night. She was going to Endellion village after supper, while Otho Killigrew was going to Rosecarrick to get some books for Mistress Nancy Molesworth. I must frame some sort of reason for absenting myself early from the supper-table.

I do not think I should have accomplished this had not fortune favoured me. Old Colman Killigrew sent word to say that he was not well enough to sup with us, but would I come and speak with him after the meal was over? My mind was made up.

Otho was silent during supper, but the other brothers talked loudly. I joined in their conversation, and made myself jovial. Presently Otho left without a word of explanation to any one; and no sooner had he gone than I told the brothers of their father's wish that I should visit him. They laughed at me, saying I was but a child at drinking; but I had my way. As chance would have it, no sooner had I reached the great door than I saw Amelia walking along a passage towards a small doorway I had seen through the day. A few seconds later, I stood outside the house, while the girl walked a few yards ahead of me. She did not go along the main road, but down a narrow pathway. When I thought we were a sufficient distance from the house, I spoke to her. It was a risk to try and talk with her, doubtless, but nothing could be done without risk.

"Amelia—Amelia Lanteglos!" I said.

She turned sharply.

"No, Maaster Benet," she said, "you mustn't go wi' me. I shell screech murder ef you do." I knew by her voice that she both feared and hated Benet Killigrew.

"I am not Benet," I said. "I am a friend."

"You—you are the straanger?" she stammered.

"Yes," I said; "yet not such a stranger as you think."

In a few minutes I had won the girl's confidence. There are several ways of making a serving-maid pliable. One is to appeal for her help, another to make love to her, another to bribe her, another to flatter her. I did the last. I told her I had heard what a faithful servant she was, how much she was trusted in the house, and what a fine-looking maid she was. This had to be done by degrees.

"You have a very responsible position, Amelia," I said at length; "and it is well for your mistress that you love her. She needs your love, too. What she would do without you, I do not know."

"No, nor I," said the girl.

"Your mistress needs friends, Amelia."

The maid began to cry bitterly.

"I wouldn't stay in the plaace but for Mistress Nancy," she sobbed at length. "I caan't tell 'ee oall, sur. There be two of 'em that do want 'er, but she do 'aate 'em oall."

"And she loves young John Polperro," I said. "He's the one that ought to marry her."

"How do you know, sur?"

"Never mind, I do know," I replied; "but say no word to any of them, or it will be worse for your mistress."

"I wouldn't say anything for worlds, sur."

"Amelia," I continued, after much talk, "I am come here to help your mistress."

"To help her, sur,—'ow?"

"I cannot tell you now. In fact, I can tell only her. Could you not arrange that I could see her?"

"See Mistress Nancy Molesworth, sur?"

"Yes."

"No, sur. She is always watched. She caan't laive her rooms without owld maaster knowin'."

"In what part of the house does she reside?"

The maid told me. It was in the same wing as that in which my own bed-chamber was situated, but the floor above. The door which opened to it was also watched.

"Are the watchers faithful?" I asked.

"Sam Daddo and Tom Juliff, sur. They'll do nothin' but what the owld maaster do tell 'em."

"But why is she watched so closely?"

"She've tried to git away once, sur. Tha's why."

"Then she loves not the Killigrews?"

"She haates 'em, sur. But I caan't tell 'ee oall."

I tried to devise a means whereby I could see her, but none were feasible. Force could not be used until flight was arranged, and that was not done. Indeed, I had not seen the maid yet.

"But," I said, "doth your mistress have no outdoor exercise."

"She cannot go out except one of they Killigrews go weth 'er, and so she doan't go at all. The last time she was out, Master Otho went wi' 'er. She waan't go no more now."

"But she will die cooped up in rooms where she hath no fresh air."

"She sometimes walks on the leads at the top of the 'ouse; but that's oall."

"How does she get there?"

"There's a stairs from the room."

"Ah! But there must be other ways of getting to the roof."

"I doan't knaw, I've only bin there a vew months. I wudden stay now but for Mistress Nancy."

"But I can trust you, Amelia?"—and then I satisfied myself that she would be secret. "Tell her," I continued presently, "that if she values her liberty or her honour, if she cares for John Polperro, to be on the leads to-night at midnight. If I do not get there it will be because I cannot."

With that I left the girl, and hurried back to the house. I entered the side door without notice, and then made up the broad stairway towards the room in which I had been told old Colman Killigrew slept.

"Will you tell your master that Master Roger Penryn waits to see him?" I said to the man who paced the corridor. I gave my false name without wincing this time, for my blood was tingling with excitement. The thought of seeing Mistress Nancy Molesworth, together with wondering what the outcome would be, made me eager for action.

A few moments later I entered the old man's room, prepared to answer any question he might put. He eyed me keenly as I entered, but spoke scarce a word for several minutes. Little by little, however, he got to talking about King George, and the feeling in the country concerning him.

"You say Hugh Boscawen is busy raising an army?" he queried presently. "Do volunteers come quickly?"

"But tardily," I replied. "Cornish folks love not the thought of a German wearing the crown and spending our money. Moreover, the Catholic feeling is strong."

"Say you so?" he queried, fixing his eyes on me. "What indications be there?"

"It is fully believed that Master John Wesley is a good Catholic and that he is labouring in the interest of the Catholic Church, having authority from the Pope; and everywhere he is gaining followers, everywhere people be forsaking the parish churches."

He nodded his head gravely.

"It is rumoured that young Charles is planning to get to England even now," I continued. "If he but leads an army, the people will, if they have encouragement and a leader, flock to his standard."

"What steps have you taken in the neighbourhood of Falmouth?" he asked.

"I have simply spoken with the people. I am but poor. I am the only representative of a small branch of my family. What the cause needs is an old and well-known name. We want a man who can place himself at the head of five hundred good swords—one who can gain the confidence of the country."

"Can you name the man?" he asked, keeping his eyes on me.

"Colman Killigrew," I replied boldly.

"Is my name known so far away from here?"

"Else why should I come here?" was my response.

After this he asked me many questions about the Penryns, which I answered readily, for I knew them intimately.

"You heard of me; and hearing that young Charles was coming to claim his own, you thought——"

"That the hope of the country lay in you."

"What force could you raise in your part of the country, if the need for men should arise?"

I answered him vaguely.

"It is well you came, Roger Penryn," he said, after he had asked me many questions. "The rumour you have heard concerning young Charles is true. He will land in Scotland; and there is no doubt that the Highlanders will flock to his standard. He will then march southwards, and there is but little doubt but he will have a great following. There will be much opposition too, for many people comprehend not the glories of the Catholic faith. He will need every good sword he can command; hence the need for the faithful to be ready."

I nodded my head, but spoke not, for I was already tired of playing my part.

"We will work quietly," continued old Colman Killigrew. "While Hugh Boscawen is publicly gathering his men, you and others will have to work in the dark. But no time must be lost. Now that we understand each other, you must begin at once to gather the defenders of the faith and be ready for action. Not that we would be discourteous," he added quickly; "you must stay with me at least another day."

"It is well," I replied; "you are well situated here. This should be a stronghold in time of trouble."

After this I asked him many questions about the castle, and what secret rooms there were. I asked him, too, the means by which the roof could be reached in order to make use of the battlements; but concerning this he would tell me nothing. Indeed, as I afterwards reflected, he had told me little but what was common rumour.

I did not join the younger Killigrews that night. I wanted to be alone to think, and to devise means whereby I could reach the roof at midnight, and so talk with Mistress Nancy Molesworth. I therefore got back to my bed-chamber with all speed, and spent some time in musing quietly.

I examined the situation of the chamber with much care. Underneath me, as I have said, was a courtyard, but to the left were the ruined walls of the old castle. If I could reach them I might find means of climbing to the top of the newer portion of the house; but it seemed impossible. I knew that a sentinel guarded the passage, otherwise I would have made my way up the stairway I had seen. I silently opened the door and examined the corridor in the hope that I should see some other means of carrying out my wishes; but the man was wide awake and watchful. All was now quiet. Evidently the family had gone to bed. I thought once of creeping along by the wall, and disabling the man called Sam Daddo who stood there. But that must necessarily mean noise; besides, the time was not ripe for such an action. I could not take away the maid Nancy Molesworth that night, and the man's disablement must lead to many questions on the morrow.

So I crept back into my chamber again. My candle had gone out, but the moon shone almost as bright as day. The window of my room was not large, but I could at a pinch have squeezed my body through. It was divided into two parts, the division being made by a granite upright.

"This is a big chamber," I mused; "surely there should be another window." Then I remembered that I had examined every crevice of the place with the exception of the walls behind the big bed on which I had slept. The window faced the east, but the head of the bed was against the northern wall. I tried to peer behind it, but could see nothing. Then making as little noise as possible, I lifted the thing away. Having done this, I saw an aperture which looked as though it might have been intended for a second window.

"This is well," I thought, pleased at my discovery. "Mistress Nancy Molesworth, I think I shall see you to-night."

For by this time the spirit of adventure fairly possessed me, and, forgetting everything save my purpose to see the maid, I pulled away the boards which had covered the opening. This done, the light shone in, and I soon found that, although the hinges were sadly rusted, they yielded to pressure. A few seconds later my hair was fanned by the breezes outside, and my eyes were eagerly measuring the distance between me and the walls of the old castle upon which I looked.

"It can be easily done," I thought, and without hesitation I put my feet through the opening; and then, placing my arm around the granite upright, I managed to get the whole of my body outside.

A moment later I stood on the ivy-grown walls of the old castle.

My heart gave a leap, for I heard the sound of a deep-toned bell. Was my action discovered? I soon reassured myself. It was only the clock striking twelve. I looked around me for means of ascent, and then I felt I had undertaken a fool's task. Would the maid come on to the roof at the bidding of a stranger? Would she listen to me, even if she did come? But it was not for me to think of that. I had promised to be there, and I would go—if I could.

I carefully crept along the ivy-grown walls, eagerly looking for a means of ascent, for I knew that if I were to see the maid I must act quickly. Even now it was past the hour I had promised to meet her. The night was very bright, but I could see nothing to aid me, and I began to upbraid myself as a childish fool for promising what I could not fulfil, when I spied an iron pipe fastened to the wall. The battlements were perhaps twelve feet above me, and this pipe was by no means easy to reach. I would get hold of the thing, and by means thereof would climb to the roof.

No sooner had the plan entered my mind than I prepared to execute it.

CHAPTER VII. ON THE ROOF OF ENDELLION CASTLE.

As I have said, the task I had set myself was not an easy one. First of all, I should have to leap several feet to a ledge, which was by no means wide, and then I should have to grasp the pipe, as well as some ivy which had climbed up by its side. If I failed to reach the ledge I should fall, I knew not how far; or if the pipe yielded to my weight, the same thing would happen. But I did not hesitate. My blood was hot, and the spirit of adventure overmastered me. Besides—and I must confess it if I will tell my story truly—in spite of my hatred of women, I felt a great desire to see the maid I had promised to take to Treviscoe. I recked not of consequences—nay, I had a sort of pleasure in dangerous deeds.

So I made the leap without hesitation, although a curious feeling possessed me as I thought of the yawning darkness underneath me. I reached the ledge in safety, and the thing I grasped held firm. Then, without waiting a second, I started to climb. It was weary work, for the ivy yielded, and the crevices wherein I could stick my feet were few. But I had often attempted this kind of thing as a boy, and before long I placed my arm round one of the huge merlons which the ancient Killigrews had caused to be placed there; and in a few seconds I lifted myself up so that my head was raised some distance above the stonework. I had scarcely done this when I heard a slight scream, which came so suddenly that I was in danger of relaxing my hold. Instinctively divining what this meant, however, I made a low sound suggesting silence, and before long stood on the roof.

It had been a hard climb, and I panted freely, looking round meanwhile for the one who had screamed. At first I could see nothing but chimneys; but presently I saw two dark forms hiding by a portion of the roof which stood somewhat higher than the rest. I walked slowly towards them.

Even now I am conscious of a strange feeling at heart as I remember that night. For there in the bright moonlight appeared a spectacle which was almost awesome. The sight of the sea and the rock-bound coast burst suddenly upon me. Below, hundreds of feet down, the waves cast themselves on the beach, which was studded with huge masses of rock. The sea shone in the light of the moon, and behind the crest of every wave was a great streak of silver lustre, fair to behold. Far out, I could see the waves a-dancing, while here and there the lights of distant vessels shone. Away to the right, Tintagell, perchance the mightiest coast-rock in England, lifted its hoary head, while to the left the bare, rugged cliffs, in spite of the soft moonbeams, looked chill and drear.

And I was there—behind the battlements of the home of the Killigrews—alone save for the presence of two helpless women. All this came to me quickly—I seemed to realize it in a moment; and then I shook the feeling from me, for I remembered I had work to do.

"'Tis he," I heard a voice say, which I recognized as that of Amelia Lanteglos. And then I saw the other maid, whose face was partly hidden, turn towards me.

"Be not afraid," I said as gently as I could; for though I would have little to do with them, I loved not to frighten women.

"What would you, sir?" said a voice, low and sweet. "Amelia, my serving-maid, hath persuaded me to come here to-night. It is against my better judgment I have come, but——" then she stopped as though she knew not how to finish what she had begun to say.

I cannot deny it, I felt something like pity for the maid. Her voice was sad and plaintive. It suggested weariness, loneliness—and no man is unmoved by such things. I felt ashamed, too. I had promised to take her to Treviscoe, to be the wife of Peter Trevisa; for I had little doubt but that if those two men once got her there, they would try to frame arguments strong enough to make her yield to their wishes. But this was only for a moment. I reflected that women were as little to be trusted as April weather, and would veer around like a weathercock. I remembered my own love affair, and called to mind the words the girl Boscawen had said to me only a few days before she threw me over for Prideaux.

"I would speak to you alone for a few minutes," I said, wiping the sweat from my forehead.

"Your hand is bleeding," she said kindly; "and—and how did you get here?"

"I climbed from the old castle wall."

"But it is impossible—it could not be! No one could do it!" This she said in low, broken whispers, but like one frightened.

"But I am here," I replied grimly; "and there was no other way of getting here from my chamber. One has to risk something if you are to be saved from the Killigrews."

"What do you know of the Killigrews?" she asked eagerly.

She followed me a few steps out of ear-shot of the serving-maid, still keeping her face hidden.

"I know that you are to be the wife of Otho Killigrew, unless desperate measures are taken," I replied. "I know, too, that Benet Killigrew professes to love you."

"How do you know?"

"You are Mistress Nancy Molesworth, are you not?"

"Yes, and you are Master Roger Penryn, so my maid tells me. But I do not know you."

She let the shawl with which she had wrapped her head fall, and for the first time I saw her face. She was but little more than twenty years of age, and in the moonlight looked younger. As far as I could judge, her hair was of chestnut hue, and it flashed brightly even in the night light. Her face appeared very pale, and her eyes shone as though she were much excited; but she was a very beautiful maid. She was not of the timid, shrinking kind which some men love, but stood up before me bravely, for the which even then I was glad. Nor was she little, and weak; rather she was taller than most women, and shaped with much beauty.

"It matters but little whether you know me or not, if you will trust me," I said. "Believe me, I have come to take you away from this den of cutthroats to a place of safety."

"Where?"

"Where would you go?" I asked.

My head was bare, and my face was plainly to be seen, so bright was the night. I felt her eyes fastened upon me, and it seemed to me as though she were reading my innermost thoughts. But I was not to be baulked by a girl, so I tried to appear unconcerned as she gazed.

"You met John Polperro at the Arundells," I continued. "He has offered his hand to you in marriage, but your guardian refused. Last night he came here and repeated that offer, but it was declined. He is a fine fellow, Polperro, and spoke boldly."

"I know," said she—speaking, as I thought, more to herself than to me.

"After your guardian had refused his request that you might become his wife," I went on, "he offered you a home in his father's house. He spoke hotly, indiscreetly, but still as an honest man; that offer was also refused. Perchance you have been informed of this?"

She did not speak, nor did she make any sign whatever.

"It is impossible for Polperro to help you now. If he again appears in the neighbourhood, he will receive steel for a welcome. But I admire him. I am always proud to call such as he my friend; so if I can take you to his father's house, I shall be doing a good deed, and rendering a service to one he loves."

This I said in a stammering kind of way, for somehow the girl's eyes made me feel uncomfortable. I wished she would not look at me so steadfastly.

"Know you Master John Polperro?" she asked presently.

"Else why should I be here?" I responded, wishing I had adopted some other plan of action. I hated this underhanded method of work, and the maid's eyes looked truthful. I should have felt far more at ease could I have taken her away by force than have subjected myself to this kind of work. Still, circumstances had made force of such kind impossible. Had the maid been allowed her liberty, I might have accomplished my purpose differently; but being a safely guarded prisoner, I had to gain her confidence.

"And you came here by his wish? You are trying to do what he found impossible?"

I bit my lip with vexation. Why should she ask such questions. Was I not planning to take her away from a place where she was unhappy?

"It was no easy thing to get from my bed-chamber here," I replied evasively. "A single slip, and I should either have been killed or crippled for life. Neither is it an easy thing to deal with these Killigrews. But for my promise to the man, I tell you I would not have attempted it."

"Your promise to whom?" she asked, and I cursed myself for being a fool. Why could I not have boldly told the necessary lies? I had intended to. Chance had given me the finest possible opportunity. I found no difficulty in trying to deceive old Colman Killigrew. Why, then, should this chit of a maid make me stammer? What could be more easy than to tell her that I, being a stranger to the Killigrews, and a friend of John Polperro, had come here to take her to a place of honour and safety?

"To whom should my promise be given?" I said. "I spoke to your maid that she might tell you of my desire to meet you. I have risked my life to get here, and I have a difficult game to play with the Killigrews."

I was angry beyond measure with myself for telling of any danger I had encountered. Had I been acting a straightforward part, I should not have mentioned it; but now I had a feeling that such words were necessary.

"If you will consent to trust me," I went on clumsily, for I felt her eyes upon me as I spoke, "I will arrange plans whereby I can take you away. I could be ready by to-morrow night. It could be done without detection. A rope could be fastened around yon battlements—it is only a dozen feet or so to the old castle walls. From thence it is not difficult of descent. I could get horses in readiness, and in a few hours we could be out of danger."

"And if you were discovered?" she asked abruptly.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to fight the Killigrews," I replied grimly.

I knew there was a gulf between us. She did not trust me. She doubted every word I was saying. I wished the light were not so good, so that she might not see my face so plainly. And yet I had her at advantage. She loved not the Killigrews—she hated the thought of wedding Otho. Probably I appeared as her only hope of escaping from them. I could see the girl Amelia Lanteglos watching us closely. Doubtless she was wondering as to the upshot of our conversation.

"Do you think I gain any advantage by coming here?" I went on like a fool. "I never saw you until this hour. I have no spite against the Killigrews, they never harmed me. It would not harm me if you were to marry Otho. Possibly he would make you as good a husband as—as another. But I—I gave a promise that I would set you free, if I could. However, if you prefer to fly to the open arms of Otho,—well——" I shrugged my shoulders, and tried to hum a tune as I looked across the shining sea.

I know I said this brutally; but the maid angered me—angered me by the truthfulness of her looks, and the way she made me bungle the thoughts I had in my mind.

She continued to look at me steadfastly. Perhaps she remembered that if she accepted my offer, and if I succeeded in effecting her escape, she would have to travel alone with a man of whom she knew nothing. Presently she seemed to have made up her mind.

"You seem to be a gentleman," she said; "you speak as if you——" she hesitated as though she could not put her thoughts into words.

I remained silent.

She made a sudden movement forward, and placed her hand on my arm. "I am alone, helpless," she said. "I am surrounded by those I cannot trust. I hate—loathe the thought of——" again she stopped suddenly; then, looking straight into my face, she said: "Are you what you seem to be?"

It came upon me like a clap of thunder, and, like a schoolboy discovered in theft, I hung my head.

"Is your name Roger Penryn?" she asked.

"No!"

"Do you know John Polperro?"

"No!"

The words came from me like shots from a musket. I could not tell a lie with the girl's cruel, truthful eyes upon me. They choked the falsehood in my throat, and I felt myself to be the sport of this maid who knew nothing of the world. I was glad I had told the truth, and yet I reproached myself for being beaten at the first definite move in the game I was playing. Probably the whole thing had been rendered impossible by my madness. Trevanion was gone from me forever; but, worse than that, I should have to confess to Peter Trevisa that I had failed to do the thing I had promised—that I had bungled most miserably.

I turned to go away. I would speak no more with her. She had been too much for me—she, a simple maid scarcely out of her teens. I had scarcely taken a step, however, before she stopped me.

"Then you are another tool of the Killigrews," she said. "There are not enough of them, and they must needs hire you. Not being able to work their will with me, even although I am a prisoner, they must needs use some other base means to accomplish their purpose." This she said passionately, yet with fine scorn.

"There you are wrong, Mistress Nancy Molesworth," I said warmly, for she had wounded me sorely. "I am not the tool of these people. Nay, my life is in danger while I stay here. But enough of that. You refuse to accept my help?"

"How can I accept the help of a man who comes with a lie on his lips?" she cried;—"who comes professing a false name, and who pretends to be the friend of a man to whom he never spoke. How can I trust a man whose every action and every word is a lie?"

"Had I been a liar," I said, "I could have deceived you easily; but enough. There is no need that I should weary you with my presence. Some time perhaps——"

"If your name is not Roger Penryn, what is it?" she said; "and why have you tried to raise my hopes only to deceive me?"

I opened my mouth to tell her my name, but I could not utter the word. I could not tell her I was a Trevanion, nor relate to her my purpose in coming hither.

"It is not well I should speak to you further," I said. "But I have wrought you no harm. Neither would I if you had trusted in me. Nay, as God is my witness,"—and this I cried out passionately, for somehow the maid dragged the words from me,—"I would have let no harm have happened to you!"

With this I walked to the spot where I had ascended, and prepared to descend.

"Stop!" she whispered. "It will be far more difficult to go down than it was to come up."

"What of that?" I replied grimly.

"Because,"—and a blush mantled her cheek,—"there is another road down. Look, yonder is the stairway."

"There is a sentinel."

"He is a lover of my maid," she replied. "She would lead him away a few steps out of sight while you got to your own chamber."

"But I should have to pass through your apartments."

"Amelia shall show you the way. I will remain here."

"No," I replied, for I was angry with her. "I will not be beholden to you in any way."

For the first time she looked at me kindly, but I took no heed. I placed my arm around the merlon, and then, grasping the gutter, lowered myself. I had often accomplished such feats, and this fact helped me now. In a few minutes I had reached the ledge, and a little later stood on the old castle walls again. Arrived there, I stopped and listened; but no sound reached me. I looked up, and saw that the maid Nancy Molesworth had followed my descent—saw that she was watching me now. There was an expression of wonder, of bewilderment, on her face. Doubtless she was seeking to divine who I was, and why I should come to her. I was sure she wanted a friend, too. But I knew not what to say—I had forfeited my right to help her. I suppose I was foolish at the moment, however. Most men are at times.

"Good-night, Mistress Nancy Molesworth," I said. "Remember that I am your friend. Perhaps some day I may be able to show it." Then I squeezed myself into my bed-chamber, feeling ill pleased with myself.

I pulled off my clothes, and got to bed; but I could not sleep. Two conflicting forces were at war within me. One moment I reproached myself as a fool for not being able to deceive a slip of a maid without stammering. The next I found myself pitying her, and calling myself a traitor to my name for not seeking to rescue her from the Killigrews. Sometimes I cursed myself for being as easily moved as a boy of twenty-one, not able to withstand the simple questions of a convent-school girl; and again I reproached myself for yielding to Peter Trevisa's wishes, and undertaking a work unfit for a man of honour.

Presently a more serious matter presented itself to me. Should I abandon Peter Trevisa's commission? The maid had practically rejected my offer. Should I go back to Treviscoe and tell him that I had failed? Should I forever carry around with me the memory of the fact that I had made a promise to do a thing, and then at the first difficulty I had given it up like a puling girl? I had taken his money, I had given my word that I would do his work;—could I give it up? Even although Trevanion did not lie at the end of the business, it were unfair and cowardly to fail in my undertaking thus. Well, supposing I decided to make a second attempt; suppose I decided to devise new means to take the maid away—there were many obstacles in my road. Old Colman Killigrew expected me to depart the next day. I had promised to take his messages to some Catholic families in the south of the country, and I should have no excuse for staying at Endellion. Once outside the house, my power to do anything would be gone.

"Let it be so," I said to myself angrily. "I will leave the whole business in the lurch. Let old Peter do his work as best he may, and let the maid Nancy Molesworth fight her own battles with these Killigrews. To-morrow I will start for London, and there I will seek for work more congenial to me. If this Charles comes to England, King George will need good swords." But even as these thoughts passed through my mind, I was not satisfied with them. I felt I should be playing a coward's part, and was seeking some other way whereby to better satisfy myself, when I heard a low knocking at the door. I did not speak, and the rapping became louder.

"Who is there?" I asked, like one awaked out of sleep.

"Otho Killigrew," said a voice.

CHAPTER VIII. OTHO DISCOVERS MY NAME.

"He hath discovered where I have been," was my first thought. "He hath been told that I have conversed with the maid Nancy Molesworth." And I began to think how I should answer him.

I got out of bed, however; and after hastily pulling on my small-clothes, I went to the door.

"What want you?" I asked sleepily. "Surely this is a queer time of night to wake one out of sleep."

"Let me in, and I will tell you," he replied.

"It will be useless to resist," I thought, "for Otho is master here, and I shall only arouse useless suspicion by refusing." Besides, I was curious to know why he was desirous of seeing me; so without more ado I opened the door. No sooner had I done so, however, than in walked not only Otho, but Benet.

For a time Otho looked at me awkwardly, like one not knowing what to say. But Benet closed the door, and stood with his back against it, holding a candle in his hand.

"Hath Charles landed?" I asked, watching them closely.

"No," replied Otho.

"But something of importance hath taken place," I said; "else why this midnight visit?"

"Yes, important events have happened." He spoke curtly, like one angry.

"And it hath to do with me, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"What then?"

He looked at me keenly for a minute. Then he answered me slowly, according to his usual manner of speech.

"Charles hath not landed," he said. "All the same, important events have happened with which you have to do."

"And they?" I asked, noticing the grin that overspread Benet Killigrew's face.

"Are two in number."

"Name them," I said eagerly.

"First, that your name is not Roger Penryn."

"Yes; what next?"

He seemed surprised that I should make so little ado at his discovery, and stared at me as though waiting for me to say some foolish thing. Whereas the truth was, that I was relieved that the truth was to come to light. I fretted like a horse frets when a saddle rubs him, every time I heard the name of Penryn.

"What next?" I repeated.

"That you are a sneak."

"Steady, steady, Otho Killigrew!" I said, for the word had not a pleasant sound. "But we will deal with these two charges. What are your proofs?"

"There are proofs enough," replied Otho—"proofs enough. One is, that I suspected you as you sat at my father's table last night."

"I thought you were of the ferret breed," I replied; "it is a pity your eyes are not pink."

He kept his temper well. "Believing you were not what you pretended to be, I sent a man to the place you said you came from," he went on. "He hath returned this very night."

"Well thought of," I laughed. "And you made discoveries?"

"My man discovered that there was no Roger Penryn."

I almost felt a pleasure in the business now. I had no qualms when talking with men. All the same, I knew that I was in dangerous hands. These Killigrews were no fools.

"It seems I must have created a new member of the family," I said pleasantly. "Well, go on."

"No, there is no Roger Penryn; but there is a Roger Trevanion."

"Ah!"

"Yes, a fellow with a bad reputation."

"Nothing like your own, I hope?" I said sneeringly, for I was ill pleased at his discovery.

"A fellow who hath wasted his patrimony."

"He never betrayed women, I hope?" I responded.

"This fellow left his home on a chestnut horse, the servants not knowing whither he went. My man discovered, however, that he stayed at St. Columb and Wadebridge. From thence he came here."

"Ah, your man hath a good nose for scenting."

"Yes, he traced you here, Roger Trevanion."

"Well, Trevanion is a better name than Penryn—far better than Killigrew."

"It's a bad name for a sneak, a liar."

"Have a care, Otho Killigrew!" I said. "You've mentioned that word twice now."

"Yes, I have," he said slowly. "I may mention it again. What then?"

"Only that I shall make you swallow it."

At this Benet grinned again. "Good!" he said aloud. "I like that!"

"I shall say it again, and shall not swallow it."

"You are two to one," I replied, "and you have your lackey outside; but if I hear it again, there will be a new version of the story about the first-born slain."

He looked at his brother, and then spoke with less assurance.

"I will prove it," he said slowly.

"That is a different matter," I replied. "Go on."

"You have been on the roof of this house to-night."

I made no movement or sound indicating surprise. I had been expecting this.

"Well, what then? Am I a prisoner here?"

"Why were you there?"

"Only to have a talk with your prisoner," I replied. "I was curious to see the beauteous maid who hates you."

I hit him hard there, and he lost his temper.

"Look'ee, Roger Trevanion," speaking quickly and angrily for the first time, "what is the meaning of this masquerade? The Trevanions are Protestants. Why did you come here, pretending to be a Catholic? Why did you climb to the roof? You are a woman-hater."

"Only for a wager," I laughed.

"Mark this!" he cried,—"there are dungeons here as well as battlements."

"So I have heard. And it would be just like a Killigrew to throw a guest into one of them."

"Guest!" he answered with a sneer.

"Yes, guest," I replied.

"You have forfeited your right to that name."

"Prove it. Is it an uncommon thing for a man to travel under a name other than his own?"

"It is an uncommon thing for a guest to get out of his chamber window, and climb to the roof of the house."

"Not if a man is of a curious disposition," I laughed.

So far we had been fencing, and neither had gained much advantage. But I determined to bring matters to a close issue.

"Look you, Otho Killigrew," I said, "you have come to my bedchamber two hours past midnight. Why? You must have something in your mind other than the things you have spoken about."

"I have come to you in mercy."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"In mercy," he repeated. "It is true you have forfeited your right to be considered as a guest. Nevertheless I remember that Trevanion is a good name, and that I am a Killigrew."

I waited for him to continue.

"You had a purpose in coming here. What, I do not know. You have been a—that is, you are not what you pretended to be. You have tried to win my father's confidence, and discover his secrets."

"I did not seek to know your father's secrets."

"No, but you came as a Catholic. You came as one desirous of bringing a Catholic king on the throne. My father welcomes such as his own children. Otherwise you would not have been welcomed so warmly, nor would you have been asked to remain while Polperro sought to degrade us all. It is a weakness of my father to take to his heart all who belong to old Catholic families, and to trust them blindly——"

"I am waiting for your mercy," I said.

"You have done two things while in this house," said Otho: "you have pretended to side with my father in carrying out the great plan of his life, and as a consequence obtained secrets from him; and you have sought for, and obtained, an interview with my affianced wife. Either of these actions would justify us in dealing with you in a summary fashion. But we have decided on conditions to be merciful."

"Explain."

"I have discovered that you Trevanions never break a promise."

"That must be strange to such as you."

"If you will promise two things, we have decided to let you leave Endellion in no worse condition than you entered it."

"You are very merciful."

"Seeing that you have abused our hospitality, it is."

"Well, about your conditions?"

"Our conditions are very easily complied with. The first is, that you never breathe to any living soul anything which my father has divulged in relation to the cause he loves."

"That is the whole of the first?"

"It is. You see I am trusting you as a Trevanion. I know that if you make a promise you will keep it."

"And the second?"

"The second is different." And I saw that Otho Killigrew spoke not so easily. He lost that calm self-possession which characterized him when he spoke about the Catholic cause. The blood mounted to his cheek, and his hand trembled.

"Tell me why you climbed the roof of the house!" he cried. "Tell me what happened there!"

"I am waiting to hear the condition," was my answer.

"Are you interested in Mistress Nancy Molesworth? Was that one of your reasons for coming here?" he asked eagerly. "Is she anything to you? Did you ever see her?"

I saw that Otho Killigrew was scarcely master of himself as he spoke of the maid I had seen that night. I remarked also that Benet had an ugly look on his face as he listened.

"I am still waiting to hear the second condition," I said, trying as well as I could to see my way through the business, and decide what steps to take.

"It is this," cried Otho. "You promise not to interest yourself in any way with Mistress Molesworth; that you never speak of her within one month from this time; that you render no assistance in any way to those who seek to baulk me in my purposes."

The last sentence came out seemingly against his will. As luck would have it, too, I turned my eyes in the direction of Benet at this time, and noted the gleam in his eyes.

"If I mistake not," I said to myself, "Benet loveth not Otho, and it would take but little to make him lift his hand against his brother."

"Why this second condition?" I said, more for the purpose of gaining time than anything else. "What hath Mistress Nancy Molesworth to do with me?"

"How do you know her name is Nancy?" he asked savagely.

"I heard John Polperro name it. But what hath she to do with me?"

"I would not have given you this opportunity," he went on, without heeding my question. "As soon as I knew you had climbed to the roof where she walks, I determined that you should be kept in safety until such time as—as——but it does not matter; Benet would not have it so. He suggested that you should have a chance of escape."

I saw that Benet looked eagerly at me as though he would speak, but by an effort he restrained himself.

"The maid is not in a convent school now," I said jibingly. "She is not to be a nun, I suppose. And I have taken no vow that I will not speak to a maid."

"But you must not speak to her!" he cried, like one beside himself,—"not to her."

"Why, pray?"

"Because," he cried, evidently forgetting the relation in which I stood to him,—"because she is my betrothed wife! Because she belongs to me—only! Because no one but myself must lay hands on her!"

"If she be your betrothed wife, she should love you," I said. "And if she loves you, perfect trust should exist between you."

"But there be enemies! There be those who——" he hesitated, evidently realizing that he had said more than he had intended. "Will you promise?" he cried.

"And if I do not?" I asked.

"I told you there were dungeons here as well as battlements," he said. "If you will not give your sacred promise, you shall lie there until it is my pleasure to set you free!"

"Tell me this, Otho Killigrew," I said, after thinking a moment. "You say you are betrothed to this maid. Does she willingly become your wife?"

"That is naught to you!"

In truth it was not; and for a moment I was in sore straits what to promise. I had no interest in the maid. She had paid me but scant courtesy that night, and why should I care whom she wedded? Moreover, if I refused to promise I was sure that Otho would carry out his threat. Even were I friendly disposed towards her and John Polperro, I could do them no good by refusing to abide by Otho Killigrew's conditions. Then I remembered the look of loathing on the maid's face as she spoke of the Killigrews, and instinctively I felt that such a marriage would be worse than death to her. I am anything but a sentimental man, neither do I give way to foolish fancy; but at that moment I saw the maid pleading with me not to promise.

"No, I will not accept your last condition," I said. The words escaped me almost without the consent of my own will, for I felt I dared not sneak out of the house in such a way. After all, I was a Trevanion, and came of an honourable race. My fathers had fought many battles for women in the past. Perhaps some of their spirit came to me as I spoke.

"You will not!" he cried like one amazed.

"No!" I cried, "I will not. Look you, I have seen that maid this very night. If you were a man such as a woman could love, if the maid did not loathe you, I would not have given either of you a second thought. But even although it may not be possible for me to lift a finger on her behalf, I will not bind myself by a promise not to help her. Why, man,"—and my anger got the better of me,—"it were sending a maid to hell to make her the wife of such as you!"

I heard Benet Killigrew laugh. "Good!" he cried; "the fellow's a man!" But Otho was mad with rage. He gave an angry cry, and then leaped on me; but I threw him from me. I looked around for my sword; but before I could reach it, the two men I had seen acting as sentinels rushed into the room, and I was overpowered.

Still I made a fair fight. Twice did I throw the men from me, and I know that they carried bruises for many a day. But one unarmed man against three is weary work, and at length I was dragged from the room. One thing I could not help noticing, however: Benet took no part in the business. He simply held the candle and looked on, occasionally uttering cries of joy when I seemed to be getting the best of the battle.

When I was left alone in a room at the basement of the castle, I at first upbraided myself because of my foolishness. I had acted the part of a madman. And yet, on reconsidering the matter, I did not see what I could have done other than what I did. True, my prison walls might hinder me, but my promise did not. It might be possible to escape in spite of the bolts of a jailer—my people had done this often; but none had ever tried to escape from their promises. Then I thought of my promise to Peter Trevisa. Well, I knew not at the time I undertook his work what I knew when I lay imprisoned, or I would not have made it. Besides, I could pay the forfeit. The bargain was honourably made. If I failed to bring the maid to him within a certain time, I had lost Trevanion. My debt of honour would be paid.

On reflection, therefore, though I was ill pleased at being confined in that dark cell, I felt strangely light-hearted. I was no longer acting a lie. I should no longer skulk under the name of Penryn. I did not believe the Killigrews would murder me, neither would they starve me. I was not a weakling, and I could look for means of escape. If I could succeed in gaining my freedom, I vowed I would take away the maid Nancy Molesworth, if for no other reason than to spite the Killigrews.

Presently morning came, and I was able to see more plainly where I was, and what my prison was like. The place was really a cellar, and but little light found its way there. True, there was a window; but it was very narrow, revealing a small aperture, the sides of which were composed of strong masonry. Over the aperture was a heavy iron grating, which grating was on a level with the courtyard. The window, too, was securely guarded with heavy iron bars. The door was strongly made of oak, and iron studded. The sight of these things made my heart heavy; escape seemed impossible.

The hours dragged heavily on, and I grew weary of waiting. But presently I heard footsteps outside. The two knaves who had obeyed the bidding of Otho Killigrew entered, one bearing food and the other my clothes. Neither spoke, although the one I had known as Sam Daddo looked less surly than the other. I remembered that he was a lover of Mistress Nancy Molesworth's serving-maid, and tried to think how I could turn this fact to account. They did not stay, but presently returned, bringing a small, roughly made couch.

"Evidently," I thought, "it is intended that I shall be kept a prisoner for some time."

After this I was left alone. It is needless to say that I tried to make many plans of escape; but they all died at their birth, for each seemed more futile than the other. I tried the strength of the window bars, and found that they did not yield to pressure. I listened at the door in the hope of hearing sounds whereby I might be able to more exactly locate my prison. This also was in vain.

At mid-day another meal was brought to me, but no word was spoken.

Still I did not despair. True, I dared take no steps for escape through the day, for footsteps were constantly crossing the courtyard outside. But when night came I would try the window bars again. I noticed an iron clamp on the couch which had been brought. Possibly I could use that as an instrument whereby I could prise open the window.

My spirits, I remember, kept wonderfully high, for I could not fully realize that I was a prisoner. In truth, the whole matter seemed to me a sort of dream out of which I should presently awake. For on analyzing my thoughts, I saw no reason why I should be interested in Mistress Nancy Molesworth. Indeed, I laughed at myself as a foolish dreamer for refusing to promise not to render her any assistance should she wish to escape Otho Killigrew. Perhaps my bargain with old Peter Trevisa and his son had somewhat to do with it. The rest I put down to the foolish impulse of the moment. For why should the memory of her face make me grow angry with Otho? Were I a woman, I would rather be wedded to him than to young Peter Trevisa. Concerning Benet's behaviour, I could come to no definite conclusion, although I formed many conjectures. But I did not trouble, for presently I fancied I saw a weakness in my prison, and thought I saw a means of obtaining my freedom.

My evening meal was brought by a serving-man whom I had not hitherto seen, accompanied by Sam Daddo. Just as if I remained a guest, I spoke to Daddo in a friendly fashion, and asked after the health of his master. He spoke no word in reply, however, although I was sure I saw him wink at me in a meaning way. I was not slow to interpret this, especially when, a few seconds later, I saw it repeated. He remained silent, however, in spite of my frequent questions, so I gave up talking, continuing only to watch. This was not in vain, for as the strange serving-man was passing out of the door, Sam, in following him, put his right hand behind his back and revealed a piece of paper. This I snatched at eagerly, though noiselessly, wondering what it might mean.

Ere long I was able to examine it, for my gaolers locked the door, and I listened to their footsteps as they traversed a passage, and climbed some stone steps.

Lifting my couch, and placing it against the door so that I might not be surprised, I went to my window and unfolded the piece of paper I had taken from Sam Daddo's hand. Only a few words were written thereon, but enough to give me food for thought. This was what I read:

"I hope I have misjudged you. Forgive me if I have. I have heard of all that took place after you left me last night. I grieve much that you should be a prisoner because of me; but means may be offered for your escape. I need a friend sorely, for I am in dire danger, and I am a weak, ignorant girl. Once at Polperro, I should be safe. The one who gives you this may not help you, although he would not willingly harm me. Unless help comes I shall be wedded to O. in a week, and I welcome the thought of death more."

As I said, this missive gave me much food for thought. It was evidently written by Mistress Nancy Molesworth. Little consideration was needed, moreover, to assure me that she must be in sore straits or she would not have sought to enlist the sympathy of a prisoner. A few hours before she had spurned me as a liar. But I bore her no grudge for that—I had deserved it. It was apparent Sam Daddo had told his sweetheart what had passed between Otho Killigrew and myself. He had doubtless listened at the door, and heard all. This, perchance, had led the maid to write me. Yet she knew not what was in my mind, and must risk much in trusting me. She seemed to regard my escape as a possibility, and therefore built upon it. I must confess, too, that her helplessness appealed to me, and a feeling of joy surged in my heart at the thought of striking a blow for her liberty.

But what could I do? Concerning this, I thought long and carefully, but could fix my mind on no definite plan save to wrench the iron clamp from my couch, and apply it to what I thought a weak spot in my window. The result of this was doubtful, and could not be attempted until late at night when the family had gone to bed. I therefore waited several hours, and then, after listening carefully, I commenced my work.

A minute later I stopped suddenly, for I heard footsteps outside. Then the door opened, and Benet Killigrew entered.

CHAPTER IX. BENET KILLIGREW AS A WRESTLER.

On entering my prison, he closed the door and locked it. Then, putting the key in his pocket, he placed the candle he had brought on a shelf, and faced me.

"I like you, Roger Trevanion," he said. "You are a man after my own heart."

I shrugged my shoulders, showing no surprise at his presence, but wondering what was in his mind. "Why?" I asked.

"Because you are a man. It did my soul good to see you beard Otho, and struggle with those fellows. By my faith, I fair itched to help you!"

I could see he had something in his mind. If I kept my head cool, and my ears open, I might discover something of importance. I remembered, too, the look he had given his brother as he spoke of his feelings towards Mistress Nancy Molesworth, and drew my conclusions accordingly.

"But you struck no blow," I said.

"That would have been fool's work. I dared not go against my own brother before the servants. Indeed, ill as I would have liked it, had you proved too much for them, I should have lent them a helping hand."

I was silent, wondering what he was driving at.

"I had this meeting in my mind," he continued. "I determined to come and see you when Otho was safe asleep."

"You are afraid of Otho," I said, drawing a bow at a venture.

"Who would not be?" he cried savagely. "Otho is as cunning as the devil. He should have been a priest. He hath all the learning of the family, and can wriggle his way like an adder. Oh, I speak plainly now! I gloried to hear you give him word for word. Even I dare not do so."

I had been summing up the nature of the man as he spoke, and thought I saw whereby I could make him unloose his tongue more freely still.

"I can see he is master here," I said. "All you have to obey every movement of his finger. You seem like children in his hands, or like dogs who have to fetch and carry at his bidding."

"He hath won the confidence of my father," he cried harshly, "and so it is 'Otho this,' and 'Otho that.'"

"While Benet, who is twice as big a man, and twice as handsome, is nobody," I said. "It is Otho who will get Endellion, Otho who will marry Mistress Nancy Molesworth and get Restormel,"—and I laughed in a sneering kind of way.

"No,—by the mass, no, if you will help me!"

"I help you!"—this I said in a tone of surprise. All the same, I expected something of this sort.

"I could see you pitied the maid," he went on. "I could see that a man of inches like you thought it was a shame for a maid such as she to be wedded to such a shambling creature as he."

"She should have a man like you," I suggested.

"Ah, you see it!" he cried. "I thought so last night. I said, Here is a man who knows a man!"—and he drew himself up with a sort of mountebank bravado.

"But I am kept out of it," he continued. "She is not allowed to think of me. She is not allowed even to see me. I must not speak to her. It's all Otho, Otho. He must have Endellion, he must have Restormel, and he must have the maid, too."

"And he seems to love her."

"Love her! With the cunning love of a priest. But it is not the love of a man such as I. If she could see me, talk with me, all would be different!"

"You think she would love you?"