ed's turn the crutch, on which all depended, had parted in two,
and he had been swept away by the tide.

At the conclusion of the story Sir Harry took snuff and nodded twice.
Taffy wondered how much he knew. The jury, under the coroner's
direction, brought in a verdict of "death by misadventure," and added
a word or two in praise of the dead man's gallantry. The coroner
complimented Taffy warmly and promised to refer the case to the Royal
Humane Society for public recognition. The jury nodded, and one or
two said "Hear, hear!" Taffy hoped fervently he would do nothing of
the sort.

The funeral took place on the fourth day, at nine o'clock in the
morning. Such--in the day I write of--was the custom of the country.
Friends who lived at a distance rose and shaved by candle-light, and
daybreak found them horsed and well on their way to the house of
mourning, their errand announced by the long black streamers tied
about their hats. The sad business over and done with, these guests
returned to the house, where until noon a mighty breakfast lasted and
all were welcome. Their black habiliments and lowered voices alone
marked the difference between it and a hunting-breakfast.

And indeed this morning Squire Willyams, who had taken over the
hounds after Squire Moyle's death, had given secret orders to his
huntsmen; and the pack was waiting at Three-barrow Turnpike, a couple
of miles inland from Carwithiel. At half-past ten the mourners
drained their glasses, shook the crumbs off their riding-breeches,
and took leave; and after halting outside Carwithiel gates to unpin
and pocket their hat-bands, headed for the meet with one accord.

A few minutes before noon Squire Willyams, seated on his grey by the
edge of Three-barrow Brake, and listening to every sound within the
covert, happened to glance an eye across the valley, and let out a
low whistle.

"Well!" said one of a near group of horsemen catching sight of the
rider pricking toward them down the farther slope, "I knew en for
unbeliever; but this beats all!"

"And his awnly son not three hours under the mould! Brought up in
France as a youngster he was, and this I s'pose is what comes of
reading Voltaire. My lord for manners, and no more heart than a
wormed nut--that's Sir Harry, and always was."

Squire Willyams slewed himself round in his saddle. He spoke quietly
at fifteen yards' distance, but each word reached the group of
horsemen as clear as a bell.