Nat Fiennes had sprung to his feet, musket in hand, when another and less romantic sound broke the silence of the near woods; and down through a glade on the slope above us, where darkness and day yet mingled in a bluish twilight under the close boughs, came scampering back the hogs described to us by Mr. Fett.  Apparently they had recovered from their fright, for they came on at a shuffling gallop through the churchyard gate, nor hesitated until well within the enclosure.  There, with much grunting, they drew to a standstill and eyed us, backing a little, and sidling off by twos and threes among the nettles under the wall.

“They are tame hogs run wild,” said my father, after studying them for a minute.  “They have lost their masters, and evidently hope we have succeeded to the care of their troughs.”

He moistened a manchet of bread from his wine-flask and flung it towards them.  The hogs winced away with a squeal of alarm, then took courage and rushed upon the morsel together.  The most of them were lean brutes, though here and there a fat sow ran with the herd, her dugs almost brushing the ground.  In colour all were reddish-brown, and the chine of each arched itself like a bent bow.  Five or six carried formidable tusks.

These tusks, I think, must have struck terror in the breast of Mr. Badcock, who, as my father enticed the hogs nearer with fresh morsels of bread until they nuzzled close to us, suddenly made a motion to beat them off with the butt of his musket, whereupon the whole herd wheeled and scampered off through the gateway.

“Why, man,” cried my father, angrily, “did I not tell you they were tame!  And now you have lost us good provender!” He raised his gun.

But here Nat touched his arm.  “Let me follow them, sir, and see which way they take.  Being so tame, they have likely enough some master or herdsman up yonder—­”

“Or herdswoman,” I laughed.  “Take me with you, Nat.”

“Nay, that I won’t,” he answered, with a quick blush.  “You have the temper of Adonis—­

     “‘Hunting he lov’d, but love he laughed to scorn,’

“and I fear his fate of you, one little Adonis among so many boars!”

“Then take me” urged Mr. Badcock.  “Indeed, sir,” he apologized, turning to my father, “the movement was involuntary.  I am no coward, sir, though a sudden apprehension may for the moment flush my nerves.  I desire to prove to you that on second thoughts I am ready to face all the boars in Christendom.”

“I did not accuse you,” said my father.  “But go with Mr. Fiennes if you wish.”

Nat nodded, tucked his musket under his arm, and strode out of the churchyard with Mr. Badcock at his heels.  By the gateway he halted a moment and listened; but the voice sang no longer from the ridge.

We watched the pair as they went up the glade, and turned to our breakfast.  The meal over, my father proposed to me to return to the creek and fetch up a three days’ supply of provisions from the ship, leaving Mr. Fett and Billy Priske to guard the camp. (In our confidence of finding the valley inhabited, we had brought but two pounds of ship’s biscuit, one-third as much butter, and a small keg only of salt pork.)