and other such exclamations. This time there could
be no doubt as to whence the uproar came. Rushing up to the great chest
upon which I had been seated, I threw back the heavy lid and gazed in.

It was more than half full of flour, in the midst of which was
floundering some creature, which was so coated and caked with the white
powder, that it would have been hard to say that it was human were
it not for the pitiable cries which it was uttering. Stooping down I
dragged the man from his hiding-place, when he dropped upon his knees
upon the floor and yelled for mercy, raising such a cloud of dust from
every wriggle of his body that I began to cough and to sneeze. As the
skin of powder began to scale off from him, I saw to my surprise that he
was no miller or peasant, but was a man-at-arms, with a huge sword girt
to his side, looking at present not unlike a frosted icicle, and a
great steel-faced breastplate. His steel cap had remained behind in the
flour-bin, and his bright red hair, the only touch of colour about him,
stood straight up in the air with terror, as he implored me to spare his
life. Thinking that there was something familiar about his voice, I drew
my hand across his face, which set him yelling as though I had slain
him. There was no mistaking the heavy cheeks and the little greedy
eyes. It was none other than Master Tetheridge, the noisy town-clerk of
Taunton.

But how much changed from the town-clerk whom we had seen strutting, in
all the pomp and bravery of his office, before the good Mayor on the day
of our coming to Somersetshire! Where now was the ruddy colour like a
pippin in September? Where was the assured manner and the manly port? As
he knelt his great jack-boots clicked together with apprehension, and he
poured forth in a piping voice, like that of a Lincoln's Inn mumper, a
string of pleadings, excuses, and entreaties, as though I were Feversham
in person, and was about to order him to instant execution.

'I am but a poor scrivener man, your serene Highness,' he bawled.
'Indeed, I am a most unhappy clerk, your Honour, who has been driven
into these courses by the tyranny of those above him. A more loyal man,
your Grace, never wore neat's leather, but when the mayor says "Yes,"
can the clerk say "No"? Spare me, your lordship; spare a most penitent
wretch, whose only prayer is that he may be allowed to serve King James
to the last drop of his blood!'

'Do you renounce the Duke of Monmouth?' I as