“Only eighteen.”

“Ah! well, my son, there is time.  She may be reconciled to the Church:  or you may change.”

“I shall die first.”

“Ah, poor lad!  Well; she may be reconciled, and her wealth may be of use to the cause of Heaven.”

“And it shall be of use.  Only absolve me, and let me be at peace.  Let me have but her,” he cried piteously.  “I do not want her wealth,—­not I!  Let me have but her, and that but for one year, one month, one day!—­and all the rest—­money, fame, talents, yea, my life itself, hers if it be needed—­are at the service of Holy Church.  Ay, I shall glory in showing my devotion by some special sacrifice,—­some desperate deed.  Prove me now, and see what there is I will not do!”

And so Eustace was absolved; after which Campian added,—­

“This is indeed well, my son:  for there is a thing to be done now, but it may be at the risk of life.”

“Prove me!” cried Eustace, impatiently.

“Here is a letter which was brought me last night; no matter from whence; you can understand it better than I, and I longed to have shown it you, but that I feared my son had become—­”

“You feared wrongly, then, my dear Father Campian.”

So Campian translated to him the cipher of the letter.

“This to Evan Morgans, gentleman, at Mr. Leigh’s house in Moorwinstow, Devonshire.  News may be had by one who will go to the shore of Clovelly, any evening after the 25th of November, at dead low tide, and there watch for a boat, rowed by one with a red beard, and a Portugal by his speech.  If he be asked, ‘How many?’ he will answer, ’Eight hundred and one.’  Take his letters and read them.  If the shore be watched, let him who comes show a light three times in a safe place under the cliff above the town; below is dangerous landing.  Farewell, and expect great things!”

“I will go,” said Eustace; “to-morrow is the 25th, and I know a sure and easy place.  Your friend seems to know these shores well.”

“Ah! what is it we do not know?” said Campian, with a mysterious smile.  “And now?”

“And now, to prove to you how I trust to you, you shall come with me, and see this—­the lady of whom I spoke, and judge for yourself whether my fault is not a venial one.”

“Ah, my son, have I not absolved you already?  What have I to do with fair faces?  Nevertheless, I will come, both to show you that I trust you, and it may be to help towards reclaiming a heretic, and saving a lost soul:  who knows?”

So the two set out together; and, as it was appointed, they had just got to the top of the hill between Chapel and Stow mill, when up the lane came none other than Mistress Rose Salterne herself, in all the glories of a new scarlet hood, from under which her large dark languid eyes gleamed soft lightnings through poor Eustace’s heart and marrow.  Up to them she tripped on delicate ankles and tiny feet, tall, lithe, and graceful, a true West-country lass; and as she passed them with a pretty blush and courtesy, even Campian looked back at the fair innocent creature, whose long dark curls, after the then country fashion, rolled down from beneath the hood below her waist, entangling the soul of Eustace Leigh within their glossy nets.