--was heartily pleased with his guest's good cheer, and
smiled with the large benevolence which a lean face expresses with more
decision than a plump and jolly one. "And now, my son," he began again,
in Latin more fluent and classical than the sailor could compass after
Cicero thrown by, "thou hast returned thanks to Almighty God, for which
I the more esteem thee. Oblige me, therefore, if it irk thee not, among
smoke of the genial Nicotium, by telling thy tale, and explaining what
hard necessity hath driven thee to these distant shores. Fear not, for
thou seest a lover of England, and hater of France the infidel."

Then Scudamore, sometimes hesitating and laughing at his own bad Latin,
told as much of his story as was needful, striving especially to make
clear the importance of his swift return, and his fear that even so it
would be too late.

"Man may believe himself too late, but the Lord ariseth early," the good
priest answered, with a smile of courage refreshing the heart of the
Englishman. "Behold how the hand of the Lord is steadfast over those who
serve him! To-morrow I might have been far away; to-day I am in time to
help thee. Whilst thou wert feeding, I received the signal of a swift
ship for Lisbon, whose captain is my friend, and would neglect nothing
to serve me. This night he will arrive, and with favourable breezes,
which have set in this morning, he shall spread his sails again
to-morrow, though he meant to linger perhaps for three days. Be of good
cheer, my son; thou shalt sail to-morrow. I will supply thee with all
that is needful, and thank God for a privilege so great. Thou shalt have
money as well for the passage from Lisbon to England, which is not
long. Remember in thy prayers--for thou art devout--that old man, Father
Bartholomew."

CHAPTER LVIII

IN EARLY MORN

One Saturday morning in the month of August, an hour and a half before
sunrise, Carne walked down to the big yew-tree, which stood far enough
from the brink of the cliff to escape the salt, and yet near enough
to command an extensive sea-view. This was the place where the young
shoemaker, belonging to the race of Shanks, had been scared so sadly
that he lost his sweetheart, some two years and a half ago; and this was
the tree that had been loved by painters, especially the conscientious
Sharples, a pupil of Romney, who studied the nicks and the tricks of
the bole, and the many fantastic frets of time, with all the loving
care