Now riding on his quarter, not in the rough track-way like a cockney, but through the soft heather like a sportsman, was a very gallant knight whom we all know well by this time, Richard Grenville by name; who had made Mr. Cary and the rest his guests the night before, and then ridden out with them at five o’clock that morning, after the wholesome early ways of the time, to rouse a well-known stag in the glens at Buckish, by help of Mr. Coffin’s hounds from Portledge.  Who being as good a Latiner as Campian’s self, and overhearing both the scraps of psalm and the “barbarous islanders,” pushed his horse alongside of Mr. Eustace Leigh, and at the first check said, with two low bows towards the two strangers—­

“I hope Mr. Leigh will do me the honor of introducing me to his guests.  I should be sorry, and Mr. Cary also, that any gentle strangers should become neighbors of ours, even for a day, without our knowing who they are who honor our western Thule with a visit; and showing them ourselves all due requital for the compliment of their presence.”

After which, the only thing which poor Eustace could do (especially as it was spoken loud enough for all bystanders), was to introduce in due form Mr. Evan Morgans and Mr. Morgan Evans, who, hearing the name, and, what was worse, seeing the terrible face with its quiet searching eye, felt like a brace of partridge-poults cowering in the stubble, with a hawk hanging ten feet over their heads.

“Gentlemen,” said Sir Richard blandly, cap in hand, “I fear that your mails must have been somewhat in your way in this unexpected gallop.  If you will permit my groom, who is behind, to disencumber you of them and carry them to Chapel, you will both confer an honor on me, and be enabled yourselves to see the mort more pleasantly.”

A twinkle of fun, in spite of all his efforts, played about good Sir Richard’s eye as he gave this searching hint.  The two Welsh gentlemen stammered out clumsy thanks; and pleading great haste and fatigue from a long journey, contrived to fall to the rear and vanish with their guides, as soon as the slot had been recovered.

“Will!” said Sir Richard, pushing alongside of young Cary.

“Your worship?”

“Jesuits, Will!”

“May the father of lies fly away with them over the nearest cliff!”

“He will not do that while this Irish trouble is about.  Those fellows are come to practise here for Saunders and Desmond.”

“Perhaps they have a consecrated banner in their bag, the scoundrels!  Shall I and young Coffin on and stop them?  Hard if the honest men may not rob the thieves once in a way.”

“No; give the devil rope, and he will hang himself.  Keep thy tongue at home, and thine eyes too, Will.”

“How then?”

“Let Clovelly beach be watched night and day like any mousehole.  No one can land round Harty Point with these south-westers.  Stop every fellow who has the ghost of an Irish brogue, come he in or go he out, and send him over to me.”