Deeply grieved for his unfortunate relative, Wildegrave at first defended him with some warmth, and urged as an excuse for his conduct the unnatural treatment he had from infancy received from his father.

“Sir,” said an old farmer, who had formed one of the jury during the inquest, “with all his faults, old Mark was an honest man, and doubtless he had good reasons for his conduct, and knew the lad better than we did, as the result has proved.”

“It has not been proved yet,” said Frederic, “and I believe, however strongly appearances are against him, that Anthony Hurdlestone never committed the murder.”

“Mr. Wildegrave, I am sorry to contradict a gentleman like you, but did not Grenard Pike see him with his own eyes fire at the old man through the window?  And has he not known the lad from a baby?”

“He will be hung,” said another farmer, riding up; “and that’s not half punishment enough for such a villain!”

“He should be torn to pieces,” cried a third.

“He was a queer little boy,” said a fourth; “I never thought that he would come to any good.”

“His uncle was the ruin of him,” said a fifth.  “If he had never taken him from his father, the old man would have been alive this day.”

“Oh hang him!” cried another.  “I don’t pity the old miser.  He deserved his death—­but ’twas terrible from the hand of his own son.”

“Old Mark is to have a grand funeral,” said the first speaker.  “He is to be buried on Monday.  All the gentlemen in the county will attend.”

“It would break his heart, if he were alive,” said another, “could he but see the fine coffin that Jones is making for him.  It is to be covered all over with silk velvet and gold.”

“How old was he?” asked some voice in the group.

“Just in his sixty-fifth, and a fine hale man for his years; he might have lived to have been a hundred.”

“Did they find any money in the house?” whispered a long-nosed, sharp-visaged man; “I heard that he had lots hidden away under the thatch.  Old Grenard knows that a box containing several thousand gold guineas was taken away.”

“Then the devil, or old Grenard, must have flown away with it,” said the sexton of the parish, “for I was there when they seized the poor lad, and he had not a penny in his possession.”

“Will they bury him with his wife?” asked the old farmer.

“He’ll never rest beside her,” said a man near him.  “He treated her about as well as he did her poor boy.”

“How can the like o’ him rest in the grave?” chimed in a female voice.  “I’ve no manner of doubt but he’ll haunt the old Hall, as his father did afore him.  Mercy on us, sirs! what an awful like ghost he will make!”

“Was old Squire Anthony ever seen?” said another woman, in a mysterious whisper.

“Ay, scores of times.  I’ve heard that the old miser met him one night himself upon the staircase, and that was the reason why he shut up the Hall.”