He fluttered back a page of his book, and showed them a young man's
head. Underneath was written: 'Sebastianus.'

'He came down with a King's Order on Master John Collins for twenty
serpentines (wicked little cannon they be!) to furnish a venture of
ships. I drafted him thus sitting by our fire telling Mother of the
new lands he'd find the far side the world. And he found them, too!
There's a nose to cleave through unknown seas! Cabot was his name--a
Bristol lad--half a foreigner. I set a heap by him. He helped me to
my church-building.'

'I thought that was Sir Andrew Barton,' said Dan.

'Ay, but foundations before roofs,' Hal answered. 'Sebastian first put
me in the way of it. I had come down here, not to serve God as a
craftsman should, but to show my people how great a craftsman I was.
They cared not, and it served me right, one split straw for my craft or
my greatness. What a murrain call had I, they said, to mell with old
St Barnabas'? Ruinous the church had been since the Black Death, and
ruinous she would remain; and I could hang myself in my new
scaffold-ropes! Gentle and simple, high and low--the Hayes, the
Fowles, the Fenners, the Collinses--they were all in a tale against me.
Only Sir John Pelham up yonder at Brightling bade me heart-up and go
on. Yet how could I? Did I ask Master Collins for his timber-tug to
haul beams? The oxen had gone to Lewes after lime. Did he promise me
a set of iron cramps or ties for the roof? They never came to hand, or
else they were spaulty or cracked. So with everything. Nothing said,
but naught done except I stood by them, and then done amiss. I thought
the countryside was fair bewitched.'

'It was, sure-ly,' said Puck, knees under chin. 'Did you never suspect
ary one?'

'Not till Sebastian came for his guns, and John Collins played him the
same dog's tricks as he'd played me with my ironwork. Week in, week
out, two of three serpentines would be flawed in the casting, and only
fit, they said, to be re-melted. Then John Collins would shake his
head, and vow he could pass no cannon for the King's service that were
not perfect. Saints! How Sebastian stormed! I know, for we sat on
this bench sharing our sorrows inter-common.

'When Sebastian had fumed away six weeks at Lindens and gotten just six
serpentines, Dirk Brenzett, Master of the Cygnet hoy, sends me word
that the block of stone he was fetching me from France for our new font
he'd hove overb