in
the neighbourhood of Bodmin, holding the Trevorder estate; but he won
his chief notoriety as steward on the lands of the Robartes family, at
Lanhydrock. There is still a room in the Lanhydrock mansion known as
Tregeagle's. The man doubtless did many things of which morality
cannot approve, but tradition has overdone itself in attributing to
him every possible crime, including the murder of his wife, his
children, and his sister. He was an unjust steward, grinding the
tenants unmercifully, and enriching himself not only at their expense
but at that of his employer. But he contrived to purchase the goodwill
of the Church, and at his death it was only seemly that the clergy
should do what they could for him. When the spirits of darkness came
to claim the soul of the dying wretch they were successfully repelled
by the priests with the powers of bell, book, and candle. The Church
wrangled with the fiends above the breathless body, defeated them in
heated theological controversy, dismissed them with contumely, and
laid Tregeagle to rest with his fathers at St. Breock. He was not
destined to repose there long. There was a heritage of trouble in
connection with the Lanhydrock estate, and the defendant in one
particular case sorely needed the witness of Tregeagle himself, to
settle a disputed point. By some means he managed to procure it; the
clergy provided a safe-conduct, and the figure of the dead Tregeagle
was led into the witness-box. A thrill of horror passed through the
court, but this spectral witness gave evidence faithfully, and gained
a triumphant verdict for defendant. The trouble now was what to do
with Tregeagle. The fiends were still waiting for him; defendant who
had summoned him took no further interest in the matter; but the
clergy felt that they still owed him a duty. They knew that the dead
man's chance at the Day of Doom was not a good one, but in the
meantime they would do what they could. It was decided to give him a
perpetual penance, which might keep the evil spirits at a distance. He
was led away to the shores of Dosmare Pool, on the desolate Bodmin
Moors, and there set to drain the pool with a leaky limpet-shell. In
those days Dosmare was supposed to be bottomless--a reputation which
it has since destroyed by drying in hot summers. For long years
Tregeagle toiled at his hopeless task. If he ceased from his labour
for a moment he would be at the mercy of the devils.

One night, after many years of