But what he heard did not give him pleasure.  He had been in the north when he had heard of Warwick’s sudden desertion of the Yorkist cause, and before he had been able to reach London he had heard the glad news that Henry of Lancaster was again on the throne, placed there by the power of the King Maker, who had dethroned him but a few years back.  Glad as Paul was, he yet wished that any other hand had been the one to place the crown upon the gentle monarch’s head.  He could not but distrust Warwick, and he was eager to learn the feeling of the country, and to know whether or not the people welcomed back the sovereign so long a captive.

But in this place, at least, it seemed as if there was no pleasure in Henry’s restoration.  The smith shook his head, and said he had no faith in his keeping the crown now he had got it.  It seemed as if the love borne by Londoners to Edward of York had extended as far as this remote village:  the people had been enjoying again, under the later years of his reign, something of the blessings of peace, and were loath that their calm should be disturbed.

The feeling might not be patriotic, but it was natural, and Paul admitted with a sigh that the cause of the Red Rose was not likely to find favour here.  A king who could fight and who could govern, and hold his kingdom against all comers, was more thought of than one who appeared a mere puppet in the hands of a designing noble or a strong-willed queen.  The sudden desertion of Warwick from his banner had caused a momentary panic in Edward’s army, and the king had fled with his followers beyond the sea; but, as the hardy smith remarked with a grim smile, he would not be long in coming back to claim his kingdom.  And if the country were again to be plunged into the horrors of civil war, it would be better for the whole brood of Lancaster to seek exile or death.

Paul had not energy to argue for his cause, and fell asleep with these sinister words ringing in his ears.

Chapter 2:  A Hospitable Shelter.

Figeon’s Farm (the true spelling of the name should be Fitz-John’s, but nobody ever thought of calling it so) was a prosperous and pleasant place enough.  It had been in the hands of Devenishes ever since the Norman conquest—­so at least the common belief went—­and there was no tradition of the house or lands having been in other hands than those of the present family.

When Paul Stukely awoke from the deep sleep of exhaustion into which he had fallen even while the worthy smith had been talking to him overnight, his ears were assailed by the peaceful and comfortable sounds inseparable from farmhouse life and occupation.  He heard the cackling of hens, the grunting of pigs, and the rough voices of the hinds as they got the horses out of the sheds, and prepared to commence the labours of the day with harrow or plough.  These sounds were familiar enough to Paul; they seemed to carry him back to the days of his childhood, and he lay for several minutes in a state between sleeping and waking, dreamily wondering if the strange events of the past year were all a dream, and if he should wake by-and-by to find himself a child once more, in his little bed in the old home, and receive his mother’s kiss as his morning’s greeting.