Now, after all, what right had she, a common farmer’s widow, to take it amiss that men of birth thought fit to kill her husband.  And the Doones were of very high birth, as all we clods of Exmoor knew; and we had enough of good teaching now—­let any man say the contrary—­to feel that all we had belonged of right to those above us.  Therefore my mother was half-ashamed that she could not help complaining.

But after a little while, as she said, remembrance of her husband came, and the way he used to stand by her side and put his strong arm round her, and how he liked his bacon fried, and praised her kindly for it—­and so the tears were in her eyes, and nothing should gainsay them.

A tall old man, Sir Ensor Doone, came out with a bill-hook in his hand, hedger’s gloves going up his arms, as if he were no better than a labourer at ditch-work.  Only in his mouth and eyes, his gait, and most of all his voice, even a child could know and feel that here was no ditch-labourer.  Good cause he has found since then, perhaps, to wish that he had been one.

With his white locks moving upon his coat, he stopped and looked down at my mother, and she could not help herself but curtsey under the fixed black gazing.

“Good woman, you are none of us.  Who has brought you hither?  Young men must be young—­but I have had too much of this work.”

And he scowled at my mother, for her comeliness; and yet looked under his eyelids as if he liked her for it.  But as for her, in her depth of love-grief, it struck scorn upon her womanhood; and in the flash she spoke.

“What you mean I know not.  Traitors! cut-throats! cowards!  I am here to ask for my husband.”  She could not say any more, because her heart was now too much for her, coming hard in her throat and mouth; but she opened up her eyes at him.

“Madam,” said Sir Ensor Doone—­being born a gentleman, although a very bad one—­“I crave pardon of you.  My eyes are old, or I might have known.  Now, if we have your husband prisoner, he shall go free without ransoms, because I have insulted you.”

“Sir,” said my mother, being suddenly taken away with sorrow, because of his gracious manner, “please to let me cry a bit.”

He stood away, and seemed to know that women want no help for that.  And by the way she cried he knew that they had killed her husband.  Then, having felt of grief himself, he was not angry with her, but left her to begin again.

“Loth would I be,” said mother, sobbing with her new red handkerchief, and looking at the pattern of it, “loth indeed, Sir Ensor Doone, to accuse any one unfairly.  But I have lost the very best husband God ever gave to a woman; and I knew him when he was to your belt, and I not up to your knee, sir; and never an unkind word he spoke, nor stopped me short in speaking.  All the herbs he left to me, and all the bacon-curing, and when it was best to kill a pig, and how to treat the maidens.  Not that I would ever wish—­oh, John, it seems so strange to me, and last week you were everything.”