“What followed Benita knew not, as one might well suppose, herself being stunned by a blow on the head, beside being palsied with terror.  ’See, I have the mark now,’ she said, ’where the jamb of the door came down on me!’ But when she recovered her senses, she found herself lying upon the sand, the robbers were out of sight, and one of the serving-men was bathing her forehead with sea water.  For this she rated him well, having taken already too much of that article; and then she arose and ran to her mistress, who was sitting upright on a little rock, with her dead boy’s face to her bosom, sometimes gazing upon him, and sometimes questing round for the other one.

“Although there were torches and links around, and she looked at her child by the light of them, no one dared to approach the lady, or speak, or try to help her.  Each man whispered his fellow to go, but each hung back himself, and muttered that it was too awful to meddle with.  And there she would have sat all night, with the fine little fellow stone dead in her arms, and her tearless eyes dwelling upon him, and her heart but not her mind thinking, only that the Italian women stole up softly to her side, and whispered, ‘It is the will of God.’

“‘So it always seems to be,’ were all the words the mother answered; and then she fell on Benita’s neck; and the men were ashamed to be near her weeping; and a sailor lay down and bellowed.  Surely these men are the best.

“Before the light of the morning came along the tide to Watchett my Lady had met her husband.  They took her into the town that night, but not to her own castle; and so the power of womanhood (which is itself maternity) came over swiftly upon her.  The lady, whom all people loved (though at certain times particular), lies in Watchett little churchyard, with son and heir at her right hand, and a little babe, of sex unknown, sleeping on her bosom.

“This is a miserable tale,” said Jeremy Stickles brightly; “hand me over the schnapps, my boy.  What fools we are to spoil our eyes for other people’s troubles!  Enough of our own to keep them clean, although we all were chimney-sweeps.  There is nothing like good hollands, when a man becomes too sensitive.  Restore the action of the glands; that is my rule, after weeping.  Let me make you another, John.  You are quite low-spirited.”

But although Master Jeremy carried on so (as became his manhood), and laughed at the sailor’s bellowing; bless his heart, I knew as well that tears were in his brave keen eyes, as if I had dared to look for them, or to show mine own.

“And what was the lady’s name?” I asked; “and what became of the little girl?  And why did the woman stay there?”

“Well!” cried Jeremy Stickles, only too glad to be cheerful again:  “talk of a woman after that!  As we used to say at school—­Who dragged whom, how many times, in what manner, round the wall of what?” But to begin, last first, my John (as becomes a woman):  Benita stayed in that blessed place, because she could not get away from it.  The Doones—­if Doones indeed they were, about which you of course know best—­took every stiver out of the carriage:  wet or dry they took it.  And Benita could never get her wages:  for the whole affair is in Chancery, and they have appointed a receiver.”