It was just twenty-five years since Piers’ father had been carried dead into Marshall’s cottage, and Marshall had stumped up the long avenue to bear the news to Sir Beverley.  Piers was about the same age now as that other Piers had been, and Marshall had no mind to take part in a similar tragedy.  It had been a bitter task, that of telling Sir Beverley that his only son was dead; but to have borne him ill tidings of his grandson would have been infinitely harder.  For Sir Beverley had never loved his son through the whole of his brief, tempestuous life; but his grandson was the very core of his existence, as everyone knew, despite his strenuous efforts to disguise the fact.

No, emphatically Marshall had not the faintest desire to have to inform the old man that harm had befallen Master Piers, and his frown deepened as he trudged up his little garden and heard the yelling voice and galloping hoofs grow faint in the distance.

“The boy is madder even than his father was,” he muttered darkly.  “Bad stock!  Bad stock!”

He shook his head over the words, and went within.  He was the only man left on the estate who could remember the beautiful young Italian bride whom Sir Beverley had once upon a time brought to reign there.  It had been a short, short reign, and no one spoke of it now,—­least of all the old, bent man who ruled like a feudal lord at Rodding Abbey, and of whom even the redoubtable Marshall himself stood in awe.

But Marshall remembered her well, and it was upon that dazzling memory that his thoughts dwelt when he gave utterance to his mysterious verdict.  For was not Master Piers the living image of her?  Had he not the same imperial bearing and regal turn of the head?  Did not the Evesham blood run the hotter in his veins for that passionate Southern strain that mingled with it?

Marshall sometimes wondered how Sir Beverley with his harsh intolerance brooked the living likeness of the boy to the woman in whose bitter memory he hated all women.  It was scarcely possible that he blinded himself to it.  It was too vividly apparent for that.  “A perpetual eyesore,” Marshall termed it in private.  But then there was no accounting for the ways of folk in high places.  Marshall did not pretend to understand them.  He was, in his own grumpy fashion, sincerely attached to his master, and he never presumed to criticize his doings.  He only wondered at them.

As for Master Piers, he had been an unmitigated nuisance to him personally ever since he had learned to walk alone.  Marshall had always disapproved of him, and he hated Victor, the French valet, who had brought him up from his cradle.  Yet deep in his surly old heart there lurked a certain grudging affection for him notwithstanding.  The boy had a winning way with him, and but for his hatred of Victor, who was soft and womanish, but extremely tenacious, Marshall would have liked to have had a hand in his upbringing.  As it was, he could only look on from afar and condemn