But hardly had they stumbled through the low doorway into the back-kitchen when a fresh hubbub arose inside—­more shouts for help.  Amyas ran forward breaking his head against the doorway, and beheld, as soon as he could see for the flashes in his eyes, an old acquaintance, held on each side by a sturdy sailor.

With one arm in the sleeve of his doublet, and the other in a not over spotless shirt; holding up his hose with one hand, and with the other a candle, whereby he had lighted himself to his own confusion; foaming with rage, stood Mr. Evan Morgans, alias Father Parsons, looking, between his confused habiliments and his fiery visage (as Yeo told him to his face), “the very moral of a half-plucked turkey-cock.”  And behind him, dressed, stood Eustace Leigh.

“We found the maid letting these here two out by the front door,” said one of the captors.

“Well, Mr. Parsons,” said Amyas; “and what are you about here?  A pretty nest of thieves and Jesuits we seem to have routed out this evening.”

“About my calling, sir,” said Parsons, stoutly.  “By your leave, I shall prepare this my wounded lamb for that account to which your man’s cruelty has untimely sent him.”

The wounded man, who lay upon the floor, heard Parsons’ voice, and moaned for the “Patrico.”

“You see, sir,” said he, pompously, “the sheep know their shepherd’s voice.”

“The wolves you mean, you hypocritical scoundrel!” said Amyas, who could not contain his disgust.  “Let the fellow truss up his points, lads, and do his work.  After all, the man is dying.”

“The requisite matters, sir, are not at hand,” said Parsons, unabashed.

“Eustace, go and fetch his matters for him; you seem to be in all his plots.”

Eustace went silently and sullenly.

“What’s that fresh noise at the back, now?”

“The maid, sir, a wailing over her uncle; the fellow that we saw sneak away when we came up.  It was him the horse killed.”

It was true.  The wretched host had slipped off on their approach, simply to call the neighboring outlaws to the spoil; and he had been filled with the fruit of his own devices.

“His blood be on his own head,” said Amyas.

“I question, sir,” said Yeo, in a low voice, “whether some of it will not be on the heads of those proud prelates who go clothed in purple and fine linen, instead of going forth to convert such as he, and then wonder how these Jesuits get hold of them.  If they give place to the devil in their sheepfolds, sure he’ll come in and lodge there.  Look, sir, there’s a sight in a gospel land!”

And, indeed, the sight was curious enough.  For Parsons was kneeling by the side of the dying man, listening earnestly to the confession which the man sobbed out in his gibberish, between the spasms of his wounded chest.  Now and then Parsons shook his head; and when Eustace returned with the holy wafer, and the oil for extreme unction, he asked him, in a low voice, “Ballard, interpret for me.”