H. C. Bailey

“ Have you done? Pray contemplate the landscape once again. 'Tis your last chance.” The Sheriff screamed in an agony of fear—and behold, a shout from the night answered him. But my lord set his free hand on a boulder, and pushing on that rose to his knees and dragged the little man over the cliff edge, and snatching at him gathered him up and sat him down. Then my lord rose up, but the little Sheriff mopped the fear-sweat from his face and panted like a hunted beast.
Nearer and nearer through the gloom came the thud of horses. “Who the devil are you?” cried my Lord Pentire. ”

“ Within the grey stone hall behold a tall lusty gentleman standing with a tall maid, and a little man snorting at them. My lord Pentire, bowing before Betty's pale face, Betty's haughty eyes, remarked to himself that the girl was designed for a queen. But the Sheriff had become, though purple, articulate: “You, sir,” he snarled at Sir William Trevanger, “I have had you watched for many a month. It is long you have been in suspicion of treasonable commerce with France by smuggling craft that run into Port Isaac. This night, sir, I was warned of one's coming.” ”

“ That nothing should put him by, sir!
But nothing to purpose of Nothing he'ld write,
And nobody should be the wiser.
'Tis nothing to you if he would do so,
And if nothing is in 't you find,
Then thank him for Nothing! And that will be moe
Than ever he designed.
“Now, I doubt my dear Betty would not think that humorous,” said he, and therewith came upon a fern-clad wall. Below it, narrow, deep-worn, is the path that wriggles down the combe to the sea. Over the wall my lord flung a leg, and was hailed at once.
“Hallo, fellow!” So shouted a man labouring up the hill. ”

“ It offered him a sky of orange and lilac and apple-green, glowing beyond the gaunt headland and the foam-circled island crags.
Nevertheless, “I complain of the sunset,” says my lord. “It gives me colour, but not form. Now Betty—Betty hath both. So, doubtless, have I. But I yearn to believe there is beauty beyond my skin. And sure, the beauty of Betty is longer of life than the sunset. I think even Betty's autumn may be comely. I'gad, I will write a poem upon Betty's autumn—and recite it unto her, It should chasten.” He smiled upon the world, and began to compose verses. ”

“ All things will be well
When the King enjoys his own again.
And she did not ask for an explanation. So my lord was constrained to expound of his own accord—a necessity always ignominious. But he carried it gracefully: waving a hand at the sunset, thus:
“Ere that sun was red came one exultant down the combe, even to the marge of the grey beach. O Betty, in the emerald water he saw, thrice happy, a vision foam-white, Aphroditean——”
“Guy!” cries Betty, rose-red.
“Siccis oculis monstra natantia—dry-eyed he saw the swimming monster,”—so my lord, after Horace. ”

“ My lord let him pluck. “Sweet sir,” says he, “you ask the poor beast the impossible. Hark how he roars. Moreover, our friends in front are going straight for Tredethy bog, and though I vowed to follow you, bogs were not in the bond.”
The little Sheriff reined up. “Tredethy bog?” he gasped, for it was a bog of reputation; and he howled to the posse. And at his howl my lord Pentire let out of himself a fearsome yell—a yell of anguish, of torment, not apt to encourage any posse in a misty night on Bodmin moor. ”

“ Now, sir—in your small bosom there is a letter that was never meant for you. But, since you have come by it at such pains, it shall be yours for ever. Eat it!”
“Oh, my dear lord!” gasped the Sheriff.
“Do you know,” says my lord genially, “you are heavier than I thought. I doubt I shall not hold you long.”
“Pull me up!” screamed the Sheriff.
“I give you ten seconds to acquire an appetite,” says my lord. “Then—— but pray, are you sure that you know the landscape? It is a long fall, and they are large, hard boulders. I think you will make a mess on those boulders.” ”

“ My lord looked after him in the twilight. “I cannot love that person,” says he.
CHAPTER III.
OF AN EPISTLE ROYAL.
Master Sheriff and his tail of two vanished into the lane on the right. My lord Pentire observing, tapped with his fingers upon the wall, and permitted his Olympian brow to wrinkle. For that lane leads to Trelights, and in Trelights dwelt Betty Trevanger and Sir William her father. My lord ceased to tap. “Certainly they will not want me,” he remarked. My lord vaulted the wall. “That is why I will go,” said he—and struck across the meadow with his long moorland stride. ”

“ Off went the man in a hurry, while my lord regarded him with benevolence; when, behold, thundering out of the gloom came horsemen a pair and cried: “Stand! i' the King's name, stand!” and knocked him down.
“Faith, there is logic!” says my lord. “But indeed the man is by himself a romance. ”

“ Since by many evidences it is plain that nought may prosper in the King's service while Prince William lives, these are to acquaint you of his Majesty's pleasure that all loyal subjects should behold no hindrance and count their duty to lie in doing in good season and discreetly what may advantage the well-being of his realm of England, so as above all he that hindereth may be removed. ”

“ The posse were riding huddled together, and so to encourage them my lord Pentire began a dolorous chant:—
When the wind whustles cold on the moor of a night
All along, down along, out along lee;
Tom Pearse's old mare doth appear—gashly white ...
his voice went up in a scream, and he stopped dramatically. The little Sheriff looked anxiously round, and the posse checked their horses nervously, and mutters came: “'Tis naught!” “It be!” “Mun hath the eye!” My lord lifted up his voice again, and the posse went on in a hurry ”

“ The longest-living author of this work died in 1961, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 62 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works. ”