Among the few features of agricultural England which retain an appearancebut little modified by the lapse of centuries, may be reckoned the high,grassy and furzy downs, coombs, or ewe-leases, as they are indifferentlycalled, that fill a large area of certain counties in the south and south-west. If any mark of human occupation is met with hereon, it usuallytakes the form of the solitary cottage of some shepherd.

Fifty years ago such a lonely cottage stood on such a down, and maypossibly be standing there now. In spite of its loneliness, however, thespot, by actual measurement, was not more than five miles from a county-town. Yet that affected it little. Five miles of irregular upland,during the long inimical seasons, with their sleets, snows, rains, andmists, afford withdrawing space enough to isolate a Timon or aNebuchadnezzar; much less, in fair weather, to please that less repellenttribe, the poets, philosophers, artists, and others who 'conceive andmeditate of pleasant things.'

Some old earthen camp or barrow, some clump of trees, at least somestarved fragment of ancient hedge is usually taken advantage of in theerection of these forlorn dwellings. But, in the present case, such akind of shelter had been disregarded. Higher Crowstairs, as the housewas called, stood quite detached and undefended. The only reason for itsprecise situation seemed to be the crossing of two footpaths at rightangles hard by, which may have crossed there and thus for a good fivehundred years. Hence the house was exposed to the elements on all sides.But, though the wind up here blew unmistakably when it did blow, and therain hit hard whenever it fell, the various weathers of the winter seasonwere not quite so formidable on the coomb as they were imagined to be bydwellers on low ground. The raw rimes were not so pernicious as in thehollows, and the frosts were scarcely so severe. When the shepherd andhis family who tenanted the house were pitied for their sufferings fromthe exposure, they said that upon the whole they were less inconveniencedby 'wuzzes and flames' (hoarses and phlegms) than when they had lived bythe stream of a snug neighbouring valley.

The night of March 28, 182-, was precisely one of the nights that werewont to call forth these expressions of commiseration. The levelrainstorm smote walls, slopes, and hedges like the clothyard shafts ofSenlac and Crecy. Such sheep and outdoor animals as had no shelter stoodwith their buttocks to the winds; while the tails of little birds tryingto roost on some scraggy thorn were blown inside-out like umbrellas. Thegable-end of the cottage was stained with wet, and the eavesdroppingsflapped against the wall. Yet never was commiseration for the shepherdmore misplaced. For that cheerful rustic was entertaining a large partyin glorification of the christening of his second girl.

The guests had arrived before the rain began to fall, and they were allnow assembled in the chief or living room of the dwelling. A glance intothe apartment at eight o'clock on this eventful evening would haveresulted in the opinion that it was as cosy and comfortable a nook ascould be wished for in boisterous weather. The calling of its inhabitantwas proclaimed by a number of highly-polished sheep-crooks without stemsthat were hung ornamentally over the fireplace, the curl of each shiningcrook varying from the antiquated type engraved in the patriarchalpictures of old family Bibles to the most approved fashion of the lastlocal sheep-fair. The room was lighted by half-a-dozen candles, havingwicks only a trifle smaller than the grease which enveloped them, incandlesticks that were never used but at high-days, holy-days, and familyfeasts. The lights were scattered about the room, two of them standingon the chimney-piece. This position of candles was in itselfsignificant. Candles on the chimney-piece always meant a party.

On the hearth, in front of a back-brand to give substance, blazed a fireof thorns, that crackled 'like the laughter of the fool.'

Nineteen persons were gathered here. Of these, five women, wearing gownsof various bright hues, sat in chairs along the wall; girls shy and notshy filled the window-bench; four men, including Charley Jake the hedge-carpenter, Elijah New the parish-clerk, and John Pitcher, a neighbouringdairyman, the shepherd's father-in-law, lolled in the settle; a young manand maid, who were blushing over tentative pourparlers on alife-companionship, sat beneath the corner-cupboard; and an elderlyengaged man of fifty or upward moved restlessly about from spots wherehis betrothed was not to the spot where she was. Enjoyment was prettygeneral, and so much the more prevailed in being unhampered byconventional restrictions. Absolute confidence in each other's goodopinion begat perfect ease, while the finishing stroke of manner,amounting to a truly princely serenity, was lent to the majority by theabsence of any expression or trait denoting that they wished to get on inthe world, enlarge their minds, or do any eclipsing thing whatever--whichnowadays so generally nips the bloom and bonhomie of all except the twoextremes of the social scale.

Shepherd Fennel had married well, his wife being a dairyman's daughterfrom a vale at a distance, who brought fifty guineas in her pocket--andkept them there, till they should be required for ministering to theneeds of a coming family. This frugal woman had been somewhat exercisedas to the character that should be given to the gathering. A sit-stillparty had its advantages; but an undisturbed position of ease in chairsand settles was apt to lead on the men to such an unconscionable deal oftoping that they would sometimes fairly drink the house dry. A dancing-party was the alternative; but this, while avoiding the foregoingobjection on the score of good drink, had a counterbalancing disadvantagein the matter of good victuals, the ravenous appetites engendered by theexercise causing immense havoc in the buttery. Shepherdess Fennel fellback upon the intermediate plan of mingling short dances with shortperiods of talk and singing, so as to hinder any ungovernable rage ineither. But this scheme was entirely confined to her own gentle mind:the shepherd himself was in the mood to exhibit the most reckless phasesof hospitality.

The fiddler was a boy of those parts, about twelve years of age, who hada wonderful dexterity in jigs and reels, though his fingers were so smalland short as to necessitate a constant shifting for the high notes, fromwhich he scrambled back to the first position with sounds not of unmixedpurity of tone. At seven the shrill tweedle-dee of this youngster hadbegun, accompanied by a booming ground-bass from Elijah New, the parish-clerk, who had thoughtfully brought with him his favourite musicalinstrument, the serpent. Dancing was instantaneous, Mrs. Fennelprivately enjoining the players on no account to let the dance exceed thelength of a quarter of an hour.

But Elijah and the boy, in the excitement of their position, quite forgotthe injunction. Moreover, Oliver Giles, a man of seventeen, one of thedancers, who was enamoured of his partner, a fair girl of thirty-threerolling years, had recklessly handed a new crown-piece to the musicians,as a bribe to keep going as long as they had muscle and wind. Mrs.Fennel, seeing the steam begin to generate on the countenances of herguests, crossed over and touched the fiddler's elbow and put her hand onthe serpent's mouth. But they took no notice, and fearing she might loseher character of genial hostess if she were to interfere too markedly,she retired and sat down helpless. And so the dance whizzed on withcumulative fury, the performers moving in their planet-like courses,direct and retrograde, from apogee to perigee, till the hand of the well-kicked clock at the bottom of the room had travelled over thecircumference of an hour.

While these cheerful events were in course of enactment within Fennel'spastoral dwelling, an incident having considerable bearing on the partyhad occurred in the gloomy night without. Mrs. Fennel's concern aboutthe growing fierceness of the dance corresponded in point of time withthe ascent of a human figure to the solitary hill of Higher Crowstairsfrom the direction of the distant town. This personage strode on throughthe rain without a pause, following the little-worn path which, furtheron in its course, skirted the shepherd's cottage.

It was nearly the time of full moon, and on this account, though the skywas lined with a uniform sheet of dripping cloud, ordinary objects out ofdoors were readily visible. The sad wan light revealed the lonelypedestrian to be a man of supple frame; his gait suggested that he hadsomewhat passed the period of perfect and instinctive agility, though notso far as to be otherwise than rapid of motion when occasion required. Ata rough guess, he might have been about forty years of age. He appearedtall, but a recruiting sergeant, or other person accustomed to thejudging of men's heights by the eye, would have discerned that this waschiefly owing to his gauntness, and that he was not more than five-feet-eight or nine.

Notwithstanding the regularity of his tread, there was caution in it, asin that of one who mentally feels his way; and despite the fact that itwas not a black coat nor a dark garment of any sort that he wore, therewas something about him which suggested that he naturally belonged to theblack-coated tribes of men. His clothes were of fustian, and his bootshobnailed, yet in his progress he showed not the mud-accustomed bearingof hobnailed and fustianed peasantry.

By the time that he had arrived abreast of the shepherd's premises therain came down, or rather came along, with yet more determined violence.The outskirts of the little settlement partially broke the force of windand rain, and this induced him to stand still. The most salient of theshepherd's domestic erections was an empty sty at the forward corner ofhis hedgeless garden, for in these latitudes the principle of masking thehomelier features of your establishment by a conventional frontage wasunknown. The traveller's eye was attracted to this small building by thepallid shine of the wet slates that covered it. He turned aside, and,finding it empty, stood under the pent-roof for shelter.

While he stood, the boom of the serpent within the adjacent house, andthe lesser strains of the fiddler, reached the spot as an accompanimentto the surging hiss of the flying rain on the sod, its louder beating onthe cabbage-leaves of the garden, on the eight or ten beehives justdiscernible by the path, and its dripping from the eaves into a row ofbuckets and pans that had been placed under the walls of the cottage. Forat Higher Crowstairs, as at all such elevated domiciles, the granddifficulty of housekeeping was an insufficiency of water; and a casualrainfall was utilized by turning out, as catchers, every utensil that thehouse contained. Some queer stories might be told of the contrivancesfor economy in suds and dish-waters that are absolutely necessitated inupland habitations during the droughts of summer. But at this seasonthere were no such exigencies; a mere acceptance of what the skiesbestowed was sufficient for an abundant store.

At last the notes of the serpent ceased and the house was silent. Thiscessation of activity aroused the solitary pedestrian from the reverieinto which he had lapsed, and, emerging from the shed, with an apparentlynew intention, he walked up the path to the house-door. Arrived here,his first act was to kneel down on a large stone beside the row ofvessels, and to drink a copious draught from one of them. Havingquenched his thirst he rose and lifted his hand to knock, but paused withhis eye upon the panel. Since the dark surface of the wood revealedabsolutely nothing, it was evident that he must be mentally lookingthrough the door, as if he wished to measure thereby all thepossibilities that a house of this sort might include, and how they mightbear upon the question of his entry.

In his indecision he turned and surveyed the scene around. Not a soulwas anywhere visible. The garden-path stretched downward from his feet,gleaming like the track of a snail; the roof of the little well (mostlydry), the well-cover, the top rail of the garden-gate, were varnishedwith the same dull liquid glaze; while, far away in the vale, a faintwhiteness of more than usual extent showed that the rivers were high inthe meads. Beyond all this winked a few bleared lamplights through thebeating drops--lights that denoted the situation of the county-town fromwhich he had appeared to come. The absence of all notes of life in thatdirection seemed to clinch his intentions, and he knocked at the door.

Within, a desultory chat had taken the place of movement and musicalsound. The hedge-carpenter was suggesting a song to the company, whichnobody just then was inclined to undertake, so that the knock afforded anot unwelcome diversion.

'Walk in!' said the shepherd promptly.

The latch clicked upward, and out of the night our pedestrian appearedupon the door-mat. The shepherd arose, snuffed two of the nearestcandles, and turned to look at him.

Their light disclosed that the stranger was dark in complexion and notunprepossessing as to feature. His hat, which for a moment he did notremove, hung low over his eyes, without concealing that they were large,open, and determined, moving with a flash rather than a glance round theroom. He seemed pleased with his survey, and, baring his shaggy head,said, in a rich deep voice, 'The rain is so heavy, friends, that I askleave to come in and rest awhile.'

'To be sure, stranger,' said the shepherd. 'And faith, you've been luckyin choosing your time, for we are having a bit of a fling for a gladcause--though, to be sure, a man could hardly wish that glad cause tohappen more than once a year.'

'Nor less,' spoke up a woman. 'For 'tis best to get your family over anddone with, as soon as you can, so as to be all the earlier out of the fago't.'

'And what may be this glad cause?' asked the stranger.

'A birth and christening,' said the shepherd.

The stranger hoped his host might not be made unhappy either by too manyor too few of such episodes, and being invited by a gesture to a pull atthe mug, he readily acquiesced. His manner, which, before entering, hadbeen so dubious, was now altogether that of a careless and candid man.

'Late to be traipsing athwart this coomb--hey?' said the engaged man offifty.

'Late it is, master, as you say.--I'll take a seat in the chimney-corner,if you have nothing to urge against it, ma'am; for I am a little moist onthe side that was next the rain.'

Mrs. Shepherd Fennel assented, and made room for the self-invited comer,who, having got completely inside the chimney-corner, stretched out hislegs and his arms with the expansiveness of a person quite at home.

'Yes, I am rather cracked in the vamp,' he said freely, seeing that theeyes of the shepherd's wife fell upon his boots, 'and I am not wellfitted either. I have had some rough times lately, and have been forcedto pick up what I can get in the way of wearing, but I must find a suitbetter fit for working-days when I reach home.'

'One of hereabouts?' she inquired.

'Not quite that--further up the country.'

'I thought so. And so be I; and by your tongue you come from myneighbourhood.'

'But you would hardly have heard of me,' he said quickly. 'My time wouldbe long before yours, ma'am, you see.'

This testimony to the youthfulness of his hostess had the effect ofstopping her cross-examination.

'There is only one thing more wanted to make me happy,' continued the new-comer. 'And that is a little baccy, which I am sorry to say I am outof.'

'I'll fill your pipe,' said the shepherd.

'I must ask you to lend me a pipe likewise.'

'A smoker, and no pipe about 'ee?'

'I have dropped it somewhere on the road.'

The shepherd filled and handed him a new clay pipe, saying, as he did so,'Hand me your baccy-box--I'll fill that too, now I am about it.'

The man went through the movement of searching his pockets.

'Lost that too?' said his entertainer, with some surprise.

'I am afraid so,' said the man with some confusion. 'Give it to me in ascrew of paper.' Lighting his pipe at the candle with a suction thatdrew the whole flame into the bowl, he resettled himself in the cornerand bent his looks upon the faint steam from his damp legs, as if hewished to say no more.

Meanwhile the general body of guests had been taking little notice ofthis visitor by reason of an absorbing discussion in which they wereengaged with the band about a tune for the next dance. The matter beingsettled, they were about to stand up when an interruption came in theshape of another knock at the door.

At sound of the same the man in the chimney-corner took up the poker andbegan stirring the brands as if doing it thoroughly were the one aim ofhis existence; and a second time the shepherd said, 'Walk in!' In amoment another man stood upon the straw-woven door-mat. He too was astranger.

This individual was one of a type radically different from the first.There was more of the commonplace in his manner, and a certain jovialcosmopolitanism sat upon his features. He was several years older thanthe first arrival, his hair being slightly frosted, his eyebrows bristly,and his whiskers cut back from his cheeks. His face was rather full andflabby, and yet it was not altogether a face without power. A few grog-blossoms marked the neighbourhood of his nose. He flung back his longdrab greatcoat, revealing that beneath it he wore a suit of cinder-grayshade throughout, large heavy seals, of some metal or other that wouldtake a polish, dangling from his fob as his only personal ornament.Shaking the water-drops from his low-crowned glazed hat, he said, 'I mustask for a few minutes' shelter, comrades, or I shall be wetted to my skinbefore I get to Casterbridge.'

'Make yourself at home, master,' said the shepherd, perhaps a trifle lessheartily than on the first occasion. Not that Fennel had the least tingeof niggardliness in his composition; but the room was far from large,spare chairs were not numerous, and damp companions were not altogetherdesirable at close quarters for the women and girls in theirbright-coloured gowns.

However, the second comer, after taking off his greatcoat, and hanginghis hat on a nail in one of the ceiling-beams as if he had been speciallyinvited to put it there, advanced and sat down at the table. This hadbeen pushed so closely into the chimney-corner, to give all availableroom to the dancers, that its inner edge grazed the elbow of the man whohad ensconced himself by the fire; and thus the two strangers werebrought into close companionship. They nodded to each other by way ofbreaking the ice of unacquaintance, and the first stranger handed hisneighbour the family mug--a huge vessel of brown ware, having its upperedge worn away like a threshold by the rub of whole generations ofthirsty lips that had gone the way of all flesh, and bearing thefollowing inscription burnt upon its rotund side in yellow letters

THERE IS NO FUN UNTiLL i CUM.

The other man, nothing loth, raised the mug to his lips, and drank on,and on, and on--till a curious blueness overspread the countenance of theshepherd's wife, who had regarded with no little surprise the firststranger's free offer to the second of what did not belong to him todispense.

'I knew it!' said the toper to the shepherd with much satisfaction. 'WhenI walked up your garden before coming in, and saw the hives all of a row,I said to myself; "Where there's bees there's honey, and where there'shoney there's mead." But mead of such a truly comfortable sort as this Ireally didn't expect to meet in my older days.' He took yet another pullat the mug, till it assumed an ominous elevation.

'Glad you enjoy it!' said the shepherd warmly.

'It is goodish mead,' assented Mrs. Fennel, with an absence of enthusiasmwhich seemed to say that it was possible to buy praise for one's cellarat too heavy a price. 'It is trouble enough to make--and really I hardlythink we shall make any more. For honey sells well, and we ourselves canmake shift with a drop o' small mead and metheglin for common use fromthe comb-washings.'

'O, but you'll never have the heart!' reproachfully cried the stranger incinder-gray, after taking up the mug a third time and setting it downempty. 'I love mead, when 'tis old like this, as I love to go to churcho' Sundays, or to relieve the needy any day of the week.'

'Ha, ha, ha!' said the man in the chimney-corner, who, in spite of thetaciturnity induced by the pipe of tobacco, could not or would notrefrain from this slight testimony to his comrade's humour.

Now the old mead of those days, brewed of the purest first-year or maidenhoney, four pounds to the gallon--with its due complement of white ofeggs, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, mace, rosemary, yeast, and processes ofworking, bottling, and cellaring--tasted remarkably strong; but it didnot taste so strong as it actually was. Hence, presently, the strangerin cinder-gray at the table, moved by its creeping influence, unbuttonedhis waistcoat, threw himself back in his chair, spread his legs, and madehis presence felt in various ways.

'Well, well, as I say,' he resumed, 'I am going to Casterbridge, and toCasterbridge I must go. I should have been almost there by this time;but the rain drove me into your dwelling, and I'm not sorry for it.'

'You don't live in Casterbridge?' said the shepherd.

'Not as yet; though I shortly mean to move there.'

'Going to set up in trade, perhaps?'

'No, no,' said the shepherd's wife. 'It is easy to see that thegentleman is rich, and don't want to work at anything.'

The cinder-gray stranger paused, as if to consider whether he wouldaccept that definition of himself. He presently rejected it byanswering, 'Rich is not quite the word for me, dame. I do work, and Imust work. And even if I only get to Casterbridge by midnight I mustbegin work there at eight to-morrow morning. Yes, het or wet, blow orsnow, famine or sword, my day's work to-morrow must be done.'

'Poor man! Then, in spite o' seeming, you be worse off than we?' repliedthe shepherd's wife.

''Tis the nature of my trade, men and maidens. 'Tis the nature of mytrade more than my poverty . . . But really and truly I must up and off,or I shan't get a lodging in the town.' However, the speaker did notmove, and directly added, 'There's time for one more draught offriendship before I go; and I'd perform it at once if the mug were notdry.'

'Here's a mug o' small,' said Mrs. Fennel. 'Small, we call it, though tobe sure 'tis only the first wash o' the combs.'

'No,' said the stranger disdainfully. 'I won't spoil your first kindnessby partaking o' your second.'

'Certainly not,' broke in Fennel. 'We don't increase and multiply everyday, and I'll fill the mug again.' He went away to the dark place underthe stairs where the barrel stood. The shepherdess followed him.

'Why should you do this?' she said reproachfully, as soon as they werealone. 'He's emptied it once, though it held enough for ten people; andnow he's not contented wi' the small, but must needs call for more o' thestrong! And a stranger unbeknown to any of us. For my part, I don'tlike the look o' the man at all.'

'But he's in the house, my honey; and 'tis a wet night, and achristening. Daze it, what's a cup of mead more or less? There'll beplenty more next bee-burning.'

'Very well--this time, then,' she answered, looking wistfully at thebarrel. 'But what is the man's calling, and where is he one of; that heshould come in and join us like this?'

'I don't know. I'll ask him again.'

The catastrophe of having the mug drained dry at one pull by the strangerin cinder-gray was effectually guarded against this time by Mrs. Fennel.She poured out his allowance in a small cup, keeping the large one at adiscreet distance from him. When he had tossed off his portion theshepherd renewed his inquiry about the stranger's occupation.

The latter did not immediately reply, and the man in the chimney-corner,with sudden demonstrativeness, said, 'Anybody may know my trade--I'm awheelwright.'

'A very good trade for these parts,' said the shepherd.

'And anybody may know mine--if they've the sense to find it out,' saidthe stranger in cinder-gray.

'You may generally tell what a man is by his claws,' observed the hedge-carpenter, looking at his own hands. 'My fingers be as full of thorns asan old pin-cushion is of pins.'

The hands of the man in the chimney-corner instinctively sought theshade, and he gazed into the fire as he resumed his pipe. The man at thetable took up the hedge-carpenter's remark, and added smartly, 'True; butthe oddity of my trade is that, instead of setting a mark upon me, itsets a mark upon my customers.'

No observation being offered by anybody in elucidation of this enigma,the shepherd's wife once more called for a song. The same obstaclespresented themselves as at the former time--one had no voice, another hadforgotten the first verse. The stranger at the table, whose soul had nowrisen to a good working temperature, relieved the difficulty byexclaiming that, to start the company, he would sing himself. Thrustingone thumb into the arm-hole of his waistcoat, he waved the other hand inthe air, and, with an extemporizing gaze at the shining sheep-crooksabove the mantelpiece, began:-

'O my trade it is the rarest one, Simple shepherds all - My trade is a sight to see; For my customers I tie, and take them up on high, And waft 'em to a far countree!'

The room was silent when he had finished the verse--with one exception,that of the man in the chimney-corner, who, at the singer's word,'Chorus! 'joined him in a deep bass voice of musical relish -

'And waft 'em to a far countree!'

Oliver Giles, John Pitcher the dairyman, the parish-clerk, the engagedman of fifty, the row of young women against the wall, seemed lost inthought not of the gayest kind. The shepherd looked meditatively on theground, the shepherdess gazed keenly at the singer, and with somesuspicion; she was doubting whether this stranger were merely singing anold song from recollection, or was composing one there and then for theoccasion. All were as perplexed at the obscure revelation as the guestsat Belshazzar's Feast, except the man in the chimney-corner, who quietlysaid, 'Second verse, stranger,' and smoked on.

The singer thoroughly moistened himself from his lips inwards, and wenton with the next stanza as requested:-

'My tools are but common ones, Simple shepherds all - My tools are no sight to see: A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing, Are implements enough for me!'

Shepherd Fennel glanced round. There was no longer any doubt that thestranger was answering his question rhythmically. The guests one and allstarted back with suppressed exclamations. The young woman engaged tothe man of fifty fainted half-way, and would have proceeded, but findinghim wanting in alacrity for catching her she sat down trembling.

'O, he's the--!' whispered the people in the background, mentioning thename of an ominous public officer. 'He's come to do it! 'Tis to be atCasterbridge jail to-morrow--the man for sheep-stealing--the poor clock-maker we heard of; who used to live away at Shottsford and had no work todo--Timothy Summers, whose family were a-starving, and so he went out ofShottsford by the high-road, and took a sheep in open daylight, defyingthe farmer and the farmer's wife and the farmer's lad, and every man jackamong 'em. He' (and they nodded towards the stranger of the deadlytrade) 'is come from up the country to do it because there's not enoughto do in his own county-town, and he's got the place here now our owncounty man's dead; he's going to live in the same cottage under theprison wall.'

The stranger in cinder-gray took no notice of this whispered string ofobservations, but again wetted his lips. Seeing that his friend in thechimney-corner was the only one who reciprocated his joviality in anyway, he held out his cup towards that appreciative comrade, who also heldout his own. They clinked together, the eyes of the rest of the roomhanging upon the singer's actions. He parted his lips for the thirdverse; but at that moment another knock was audible upon the door. Thistime the knock was faint and hesitating.

The company seemed scared; the shepherd looked with consternation towardsthe entrance, and it was with some effort that he resisted his alarmedwife's deprecatory glance, and uttered for the third time the welcomingwords, 'Walk in!'

The door was gently opened, and another man stood upon the mat. He, likethose who had preceded him, was a stranger. This time it was a short,small personage, of fair complexion, and dressed in a decent suit of darkclothes.

'Can you tell me the way to--?' he began: when, gazing round the room toobserve the nature of the company amongst whom he had fallen, his eyeslighted on the stranger in cinder-gray. It was just at the instant whenthe latter, who had thrown his mind into his song with such a will thathe scarcely heeded the interruption, silenced all whispers and inquiriesby bursting into his third verse:-

'To-morrow is my working day, Simple shepherds all - To-morrow is a working day for me: For the farmer's sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta'en, And on his soul may God ha' merc-y!'

The stranger in the chimney-corner, waving cups with the singer soheartily that his mead splashed over on the hearth, repeated in his bassvoice as before:-

'And on his soul may God ha' merc-y!'

All this time the third stranger had been standing in the doorway.Finding now that he did not come forward or go on speaking, the guestsparticularly regarded him. They noticed to their surprise that he stoodbefore them the picture of abject terror--his knees trembling, his handshaking so violently that the door-latch by which he supported himselfrattled audibly: his white lips were parted, and his eyes fixed on themerry officer of justice in the middle of the room. A moment more and hehad turned, closed the door, and fled.

'What a man can it be?' said the shepherd.

The rest, between the awfulness of their late discovery and the oddconduct of this third visitor, looked as if they knew not what to think,and said nothing. Instinctively they withdrew further and further fromthe grim gentleman in their midst, whom some of them seemed to take forthe Prince of Darkness himself; till they formed a remote circle, anempty space of floor being left between them and him -

' . . . circulus, cujus centrum diabolus.'

The room was so silent--though there were more than twenty people init--that nothing could be heard but the patter of the rain against thewindow-shutters, accompanied by the occasional hiss of a stray drop thatfell down the chimney into the fire, and the steady puffing of the man inthe corner, who had now resumed his pipe of long clay.

The stillness was unexpectedly broken. The distant sound of a gunreverberated through the air--apparently from the direction of the county-town.

'Be jiggered!' cried the stranger who had sung the song, jumping up.

'What does that mean?' asked several.

'A prisoner escaped from the jail--that's what it means.'

All listened. The sound was repeated, and none of them spoke but the manin the chimney-corner, who said quietly, 'I've often been told that inthis county they fire a gun at such times; but I never heard it tillnow.'

'I wonder if it is my man?' murmured the personage in cinder-gray.

'Surely it is!' said the shepherd involuntarily. 'And surely we've zeedhim! That little man who looked in at the door by now, and quivered likea leaf when he zeed ye and heard your song!'

'His teeth chattered, and the breath went out of his body,' said thedairyman.

'And his heart seemed to sink within him like a stone,' said OliverGiles.

'And he bolted as if he'd been shot at,' said the hedge-carpenter.

'True--his teeth chattered, and his heart seemed to sink; and he boltedas if he'd been shot at,' slowly summed up the man in the chimney-corner.

'I didn't notice it,' remarked the hangman.

'We were all a-wondering what made him run off in such a fright,'faltered one of the women against the wall, 'and now 'tis explained!'

The firing of the alarm-gun went on at intervals, low and sullenly, andtheir suspicions became a certainty. The sinister gentleman in cinder-gray roused himself. 'Is there a constable here?' he asked, in thicktones. 'If so, let him step forward.'

The engaged man of fifty stepped quavering out from the wall, hisbetrothed beginning to sob on the back of the chair.

'You are a sworn constable?'

'I be, sir.'

'Then pursue the criminal at once, with assistance, and bring him backhere. He can't have gone far.'

'I will, sir, I will--when I've got my staff. I'll go home and get it,and come sharp here, and start in a body.'

'Staff!--never mind your staff; the man'll be gone!'

'But I can't do nothing without my staff--can I, William, and John, andCharles Jake? No; for there's the king's royal crown a painted on en inyaller and gold, and the lion and the unicorn, so as when I raise en upand hit my prisoner, 'tis made a lawful blow thereby. I wouldn't 'temptto take up a man without my staff--no, not I. If I hadn't the law to gieme courage, why, instead o' my taking up him he might take up me!'

'Now, I'm a king's man myself; and can give you authority enough forthis,' said the formidable officer in gray. 'Now then, all of ye, beready. Have ye any lanterns?'

'Yes--have ye any lanterns?--I demand it!' said the constable.

'And the rest of you able-bodied--'

'Able-bodied men--yes--the rest of ye!' said the constable.

'Have you some good stout staves and pitch-forks--'

'Staves and pitchforks--in the name o' the law! And take 'em in yerhands and go in quest, and do as we in authority tell ye!'