our worship?"

"Jesuits, Will!"

"May the father of lies fly away with them over the nearest cliff!"

"He will not do that while this Irish trouble is about. Those fellows
are come to practise here for Saunders and Desmond."

"Perhaps they have a consecrated banner in their bag, the scoundrels!
Shall I and young Coffin on and stop them? Hard if the honest men may
not rob the thieves once in a way."

"No; give the devil rope, and he will hang himself. Keep thy tongue at
home, and thine eyes too, Will."

"How then?"

"Let Clovelly beach be watched night and day like any mousehole. No one
can land round Harty Point with these south-westers. Stop every fellow
who has the ghost of an Irish brogue, come he in or go he out, and send
him over to me."

"Some one should guard Bude-haven, sir."

"Leave that to me. Now then, forward, gentlemen all, or the stag will
take the sea at the Abbey."

And on they crashed down the Hartland glens, through the oak-scrub and
the great crown-ferns; and the baying of the slow-hound and the tantaras
of the horn died away farther and fainter toward the blue Atlantic,
while the conspirators, with lightened hearts, pricked fast across
Bursdon upon their evil errand. But Eustace Leigh had other thoughts
and other cares than the safety of his father's two mysterious guests,
important as that was in his eyes; for he was one of the many who had
drunk in sweet poison (though in his case it could hardly be called
sweet) from the magic glances of the Rose of Torridge. He had seen her
in the town, and for the first time in his life fallen utterly in love;
and now that she had come down close to his father's house, he looked on
her as a lamb fallen unawares into the jaws of the greedy wolf, which
he felt himself to be. For Eustace's love had little or nothing of
chivalry, self-sacrifice, or purity in it; those were virtues which were
not taught at Rheims. Careful as the Jesuits were over the practical
morality of their pupils, this severe restraint had little effect in
producing real habits of self-control. What little Eustace had learnt of
women from them, was as base and vulgar as the rest of their teaching.
What could it be else, if instilled by men educated in the schools of
Italy and France, in the age which produced the foul novels of Cinthio
and Bandello, and compelled Rabelais in order to escape the rack and
stake, to hide the light of his great wisdom, not beneath a bushel, but
beneath