“And this old man’s sires,” said my father to me, but so that he did not hear, “held land in Domesday Book—­twelve virgates of land with close on forty carucates of arable, villeins and borderers and bondservants, six acres of wood, a hundred and twenty of pasture; and he makes his last stand on this heap of stones.  Ballast?” He turned to the seaman.  “Did I not tell Captain Pomery to ballast with wine?”

“We were carrying it all the forenoon,” the seaman answered.  “There was two hogsheads of claret.”

“And the hogshead of Madeira, with what remained of the brown sherry?  Likewise in bottles twelve dozen of the Hermitage and as much again of the Pope’s wine, of Avignon?”

“It all went in, sir.  Master Gervase checked it on board by the list.”

“For the rest we are reduced to stones?  Then, Prosper, there remains no other course open to us.”

“Than what, sir?” I asked.

“We must enlist this old man; and that fulfils our number.”

“Old John Worthyvale?”

“Why not?  He can sit in the hold and crack stones until I devise his part in the campaign.  Say no more.  I have an inkling he will prove not the least useful man of our company.”

“As to that, sir,” I answered, with a shrug of the shoulders and a glance at Mr. Fett and Mr. Badcock, “I don’t feel able to contradict you.”

“Then here we are assembled,” said my father, cheerfully, with the air of one closing a discussion; “the more by token that here comes Billy Priske.  Why, man,” he asked, as Billy rode up—­but so dejectedly that his horse seemed to droop its ears in sympathy—­ “what ails you?  Not wounded, are you?”

“Worse,” answered Billy, and groaned.

“We were told you got quit of the crowd.

“So I did,” said Billy.  “Damn it!”

“They followed you?” I asked.

“No, they didn’t, and I wish they had.”

“Then what on earth has happened?”

“What has happened?” Having no hair of his own to speak of, Billy reached forward and ran his fingers through his horse’s mane.  “I’ve engaged to get married.  That’s what has happened.”

“Good Lord!”

“To a female Methody, in a Quaker bonnet.  I had no idea of any such thing when I followed her.  She was sittin’ on the first milestone out of Falmouth and jabbin’ her heel into the dust, like a person in a pet.  First of all, when I spoke to her, she wouldn’t tell what had annoyed her; but later on it turned out she had come expectin’ to be made a martyr of, and everything was lookin’ keenly that way until Sir John came and interfered, as she put it.”

“And she said,” suggested Mr. Fett, “that she didn’t mind what man could do unto her?”

“The very words she used, sir!” said Billy, his brow clearing as a prisoner’s will when counsel supplies him with a defence.

“And, when you took her at her word, like a Christian woman she turned the other cheek?”