of "Stephen _versus_ Stephen," judgment had been entered against the
defendant, who was hereby commanded to evade the premises and yield up
possession without delay. This also he destroyed.

But there arrived a morning when, as Roger sat at breakfast, the old man
came running with news of a gang of men on the road, not six hundred yards
away, and approaching the house.

"Are the gates bolted?" asked Roger, rising and taking down two guns from
the rack over the chimney-piece.

"Ay, master, bolted and locked." With some vague notion that thereby he
asserted possession, Roger had bought new padlocks and clapped them on all
three gates--the wrought-iron one admitting to the courtlage, the side
wicket, and the great folding-doors of the stable-yard at the back.

"Where's Joseph?"--this was the farm-hind.

"In the challs." [Cattle sheds.]

"Take you this gun and give him the other, and you're to fire on anyone
who tries to force the stable gate. They're loaded, the pair of 'em, with
buckshot. Now, this fellow,"--he reached down a third gun--"is loaded
blank, and here's another with a bullet in him. I'll take these out to
the front."

"But, master, 'tis a hanging matter!"

"And I'll hang, and so shall you, before e'er a one o' these scoundrels
sets foot in Steens. Go you off quick and tell Joseph, if there's
trouble, to let slip the tether of the shorthorn bull."

Roger crammed a powder-flask into one pocket with a handful of wadding, a
bag of bullets into another, took his two guns, and went forth into the
courtlage, in time to see a purple-faced man in an ill-fitting Dalmahoy
wig climb off his horse and advance to the gate, with half a dozen
retainers behind him.

He tried the latch, and, finding it locked, began to shake the gate by the
bars.

"Hullo!" said Roger. "And who may you be, making so bold?"

"Is your name Roger Stephen?" the purple-faced man demanded.

"I asked you a question first. Drop shaking my gate and answer it, or
else take yourself off."

"And I order you to open at once, sir! I'm the Under-Sheriff of Cornwall,
and I've come with a writ of ejectment. You've defied the law long
enough, Master Stephen; you've brought me far; and, if you've ever heard
the name of William Sandercock, you know he's one to stand no nonsense."

"I never heard tell of you," said Roger, appearing to search his memory;
"but speaking off-hand and at first sight, I should say you was either
half-drunk or