By evil luck, this child began to squeal about his mother, having been petted hitherto, and wont to get all he wanted, by raising his voice but a little.  Now the mark of the floor was upon his head, as the maid (who had stolen to look at him, when the rough men were swearing upstairs) gave evidence.  And she put a dish-cloth under his head, and kissed him, and ran away again.  Her name was Honour Jose, and she meant what was right by her master and mistress; but could not help being frightened.  And many women have blamed her, as I think unduly, for her mode of forsaking baby so.  If it had been her own baby, instinct rather than reason might have had the day with her; but the child being born of her mistress, she wished him good luck, and left him, as the fierce men came downstairs.  And being alarmed by their power of language (because they had found no silver), she crept away in a breathless hurry, and afraid how her breath might come back to her.  For oftentime she had hiccoughs.

While this good maid was in the oven, by side of back-kitchen fireplace, with a faggot of wood drawn over her, and lying so that her own heart beat worse than if she were baking; the men (as I said before) came downstairs, and stamped around the baby.

“Rowland, is the bacon good?” one of them asked with an oath or two; “it is too bad of Carver to go off with the only prize, and leave us in a starving cottage; and not enough to eat for two of us.  Fetch down the staves of the rack, my boy.  What was farmer to have for supper?”

“Naught but an onion or two, and a loaf and a rasher of rusty bacon.  These poor devils live so badly, they are not worth robbing.”

“No game!  Then let us have a game of loriot with the baby!  It will be the best thing that could befall a lusty infant heretic.  Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross.  Bye, bye, baby Bunting; toss him up, and let me see if my wrist be steady.”

The cruelty of this man is a thing it makes me sick to speak of; enough that when the poor baby fell (without attempt at cry or scream, thinking it part of his usual play, when they tossed him up, to come down again), the maid in the oven of the back-kitchen, not being any door between, heard them say as follows,—­

    “If any man asketh who killed thee,
     Say ’twas the Doones of Bagworthy.’*

          * Always pronounced “Badgery.”

Now I think that when we heard this story, and poor Kit Badcock came all around, in a sort of half-crazy manner, not looking up at any one, but dropping his eyes, and asking whether we thought he had been well-treated, and seeming void of regard for life, if this were all the style of it; then having known him a lusty man, and a fine singer in an ale-house, and much inclined to lay down the law, as show a high hand about women, I really think that it moved us more than if he had gone about ranting, and raving, and vowing revenge upon every one.