“There was a pause arter this, jes’ about so long as you cou’d count twenty; an’ the rest o’ the congregashun began to fidget an’ whisper round that suthin’ was up, when all ’pon a sudden my ould rook straightens hissel’ up an’ begins to cuss and to swear.  What’s that you say, sir?  Rooks don’t swear?  Don’t tell me.  Blasphemin’?  Why, in two minnits the air was stiff wi’ blasphemy—­you might ha’ cut et wi’ a knife.  An’ oaths?  Why, you cou’d feel the oaths.  An’ there he sot an’ cussed, an’ cussed an’ sot, an’ let the hatefulness run out like watter from a pump.

“In cou’se, ’twarnt long afore the rest gather’d round to larn what the mess was, an’ then there was Chevychace.  They handed round the eye, an’ looked at et this way an’ that, an’ ’splained what had happen’d wan to t’other; an’ then they hushed an’ stood quiet while their dasayved brother cussed hissel’ out.  Not a smile ’mongst the lot, sir; not a wink, as I be a truthful man.

“At las’ he’d a-done, an’ not too soon for hes lungs; an’ then the lot sat down an’ conseddered et out, an’ still not a word for minnits togither.  But all to wanst up starts a youngish-lookin’ rook, an’ makes a speech.

“‘Twarn’t a long speech, sir, an’ nat’rally I didn’t understand a word:  but I cotched his drift in a minnit, tho’.  For they rooks started up, walked back to their seats, an’ what do ’ee think they did?”

“I couldn’t pretend to guess,” said Mr. Fogo.

“They jes’ started that sarvice agan, sir, an’ paradised et from start to finish.  They mixed up ow jests wi’ the prayers, an’ flung in fancy yarns wi’ their experiences, an’ made a mock at th’ exhortashun; an’ what they sung in place o’ the hemn, I don’t know; but I do knaw this much—­et warn’t fit for a woman to list’n to.

“Well, I laffed—­I was forced to laff—­but arter a while et grew a bit too strong, an’ I runned up to th’ house to fetch down a few folks to look.  I warn’t away ’bove ten minnits; but when I comed back there warn’t no rook to be seen, nor no eye nuther.  They’d a-carr’d et off to Squire Tresawsen’s rookery, an’ et’s niver been seen fro’ that day to this.”

There was silence for a few moments as Caleb finished his story and lit another pipe.  Finally Mr. Fogo roused him to ask—­

“What became of your master, Caleb?”

“Dead, sir—­dead,” answered Caleb, staring into the embers of the fire.  “He lived to a powerful age, tho’ albeit a bit totelin’ [14] in hes latter days.  But for all that he mou’t ha’ been like Tantra-bobus—­lived till he died, or at least been a centurion—­”

“A what?”

“Centurion, sir; otherwise a hundred years old.  But he went round land [15] at las’, an’ was foun’ dead in hes bed—­o’ heart-break, they did say, ‘long o’ his gran’-darter Joanna runnin’ away wi’ an army cap’n.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Fogo, pensively, “she was a woman, was she not?”