is own heart. For though
Courtier knew that against an unpopular idea there must always be a
majority, he never thought so ill of any individual as to suppose him
capable of belonging to that ill-omened body.

Surely these fine, independent fellows were not to be hoodwinked by the
jingoes! It had been one more disillusion. He had not taken it lying
down; neither had his audience. They dispersed without forgiving; they
came together again without having forgotten.

The village Inn, a little white building whose small windows were
overgrown with creepers, had a single guest's bedroom on the upper floor,
and a little sitting-room where Courtier took his meals. The rest of the
house was but stone-floored bar with a long wooden bench against the back
wall, whence nightly a stream of talk would issue, all harsh a's, and
sudden soft u's; whence too a figure, a little unsteady, would now and
again emerge, to a chorus of 'Gude naights,' stand still under the
ash-trees to light his pipe, then move slowly home.

But on that evening, when the trees, like cattle, stood knee-deep in the
moon-dust, those who came out from the bar-room did not go away; they
hung about in the shadows, and were joined by other figures creeping
furtively through the bright moonlight, from behind the Inn. Presently
more figures moved up from the lanes and the churchyard path, till thirty
or more were huddled there, and their stealthy murmur of talk distilled a
rare savour of illicit joy. Unholy hilarity, indeed, seemed lurking in
the deep tree-shadow, before the wan Inn, whence from a single lighted
window came forth the half-chanting sound of a man's voice reading out
loud. Laughter was smothered, talk whispered.

"He'm a-practisin' his spaches." "Smoke the cunnin' old vox out!" "Red
pepper's the proper stuff." "See men sneeze! We've a-screed up the
door."

Then, as a face showed at the lighted window, a burst of harsh laughter
broke the hush.

He at the window was seen struggling violently to wrench away a bar. The
laughter swelled to hooting. The prisoner forced his way through,
dropped to the ground, rose, staggered, and fell.

A voice said sharply:

"What's this?"

Out of the sounds of scuffling and scattering came the whisper: "His
lordship!" And the shade under the ash-trees became deserted, save by
the tall dark figure of a man, and a woman's white shape.

"Is that you, Mr. Courtier? Are you hurt?"

A chuckle rose from th