Burlacombe.  Aye!

Trustaford.  Off again she was in ’alf an hour.  ’Er didn’t give poor old curate much of a chance, after six months.

Godleigh.  Havin’ an engagement elsewhere—­No scandal, please, gentlemen.

Burlacombe. [Acidly] Never asked to see my missis.  Passed me in the yard like a stone.

Trustaford.  ’Tes a little bit rumoursome lately about ’er doctor.

Godleigh.  Ah! he’s the favourite.  But ’tes a dead secret; Mr. Trustaford.  Don’t yu never repate it—­there’s not a cat don’t know it already!

Burlacombe frowns, and Trustaford utters his laugh.  The door is opened and Freman, a dark gipsyish man in the dress of a farmer, comes in.

Godleigh.  Don’t yu never tell Will Freman what ’e told me!

Freman.  Avenin’!

Trustaford.  Avenin’, Will; what’s yure glass o’ trouble?

Freman.  Drop o’ eider, clove, an’ dash o’ gin.  There’s blood in the sky to-night.

Burlacombe.  Ah!  We’ll ‘ave fine weather now, with the full o’ the mune.

Freman.  Dust o’ wind an’ a drop or tu, virst, I reckon.  ‘Earl t’ nuse about curate an’ ’is wife?

Godleigh.  No, indeed; an’ don’t yu tell us.  We’m Christians ’ere in this village.

Freman.  ’Tain’t no very Christian nuse, neither.  He’s sent ’er off to th’ doctor.  “Go an’ live with un,” ‘e says; “my blessin’ on ye.”  If ’er’d a-been mine, I’d ’a tuk the whip to ’er.  Tam Jarland’s maid, she yeard it all.  Christian, indeed!  That’s brave Christianity!  “Goo an’ live with un!” ’e told ’er.

Burlacombe.  No, no; that’s, not sense—­a man to say that.  I’ll not ’ear that against a man that bides in my ’ouse.

Freman.  ’Tes sure, I tell ’ee.  The maid was hid-up, scared-like, behind the curtain.  At it they went, and parson ’e says:  “Go,” ’e says, “I won’t kape ’ee from ’im,” ‘e says, “an’ I won’t divorce ’ee, as yu don’t wish it!” They was ’is words, same as Jarland’s maid told my maid, an’ my maid told my missis.  If that’s parson’s talk, ‘tes funny work goin’ to church.

Trustaford. [Brooding] ’Tes wonderful quare, zurely.

Freman.  Tam Jarland’s fair mad wi’ curate for makin’ free wi’ his maid’s skylark.  Parson or no parson, ‘e’ve no call to meddle wi’ other people’s praperty.  He cam’ pokin’ ’is nose into my affairs.  I told un I knew a sight more ’bout ’orses than ’e ever would!

Trustaford.  He’m a bit crazy ‘bout bastes an’ birds.

[They have been so absorbed that they bane not noticed the entrance of Clyst, a youth with tousled hair, and a bright, quick, Celtic eye, who stands listening, with a bit of paper in his hand.]

Clyst. Ah! he’m that zurely, Mr. Trustaford.