e than might be expected,--

"Sir Counsellor, I cannot give you what does not belong to me. But if
you will show me that particular diamond which is heaven to you, I will
take upon myself the risk and the folly of cutting it out for you. And
with that you must go contented; and I beseech you not to starve with
that jewel upon your lips."

Seeing no hope of better terms, he showed me his pet love of a jewel;
and I thought of what Lorna was to me, as I cut it out (with the hinge
of my knife severing the snakes of gold) and placed it in his careful
hand. Another moment, and he was gone, and away through Gwenny's
postern; and God knows what became of him.

Now as to Carver, the thing was this--so far as I could ascertain from
the valiant miners, no two of whom told the same story, any more than
one of them told it twice. The band of Doones which sallied forth for
the robbery of the pretended convoy was met by Simon Carfax, according
to arrangement, at the ruined house called The Warren, in that part of
Bagworthy Forest where the river Exe (as yet a very small stream) runs
through it. The Warren, as all our people know, had belonged to a fine
old gentleman, whom every one called "The Squire," who had retreated
from active life to pass the rest of his days in fishing, and shooting,
and helping his neighbours. For he was a man of some substance; and no
poor man ever left The Warren without a bag of good victuals, and a
few shillings put in his pocket. However, this poor Squire never made
a greater mistake, than in hoping to end his life peacefully upon the
banks of a trout-stream, and in the green forest of Bagworthy. For as
he came home from the brook at dusk, with his fly-rod over his shoulder,
the Doones fell upon him, and murdered him, and then sacked his house,
and burned it.

Now this had made honest people timid about going past The Warren at
night; for, of course, it was said that the old Squire "walked," upon
certain nights of the moon, in and out of the trunks of trees, on the
green path from the river. On his shoulder he bore a fishing-rod, and
his book of trout-flies, in one hand, and on his back a wicker-creel;
and now and then he would burst out laughing to think of his coming so
near the Doones.

And now that one turns to consider it, this seems a strangely righteous
thing, that the scene of one of the greatest crimes even by Doones
committed should, after twenty years, become the scene of vengeance
fallin