‘That’s another down,’ said his whip.  ’Sound good wood it is, not made to fall.  Her ladyship’s at it hard to-day.  She ’ll teach Mr. Addicote a thing or two about things females can do.  That is, when they stand for their rights.’

He explained to Weyburn that Mr. Addicote, a yeoman farmer and a good hunting man, but a rare obstinate one, now learning his lesson from her ladyship, was in dispute with her over rights of property on a stretch of fir-trees lining the ridge where the estates of Olmer and Addicotes met.  Her ladyship had sworn that if he did not yield to her claim she would cut down every tree of the ridge and sell the lot for timber under his nose.  She acted according to her oath, in the teeth of his men two feet across the border.  All the world knew the roots of those trees were for the most part in Olmer soil, though Addicote shared the shade.  All the people about mourned for the felling of those trees.  All blamed Mr. Gilbert Addicote for provoking her ladyship, good hunting man though he was.  But as to the merits of the question, under the magnifier of the gentlemen of the law, there were as many different opinions as wigs in the land.

‘And your opinion?’ said Weyburn.

To which the young groom answered:  ’Oh, I don’t form an opinion, sir.  I ’m of my mistress’s opinion; and if she says, Do it, think as we like, done it has to be.’

Lady Charlotte came at a trot through the gate, to supervise the limbering-up of another felled tree.  She headed it as before.  The log dragged bounding and twirling, rattling its chains; the crowd along the ridge, forbidden to cheer, watching it with intense repression of the roar.  We have not often in England sight of a great lady challengeing an unpopular man to battle and smacking him in the face like this to provoke him.  Weyburn was driven on a half-circle of the lane to the gate, where he jumped out to greet Lady Charlotte trotting back for another smack in the face of her enemy,—­a third rounding of her Troy with the vanquished dead at her heels, as Weyburn let a flimsy suggestion beguile his fancy, until the Homeric was overwhelming even to a playful mind, and he put her in a mediaeval frame.  She really had the heroical aspect in a grandiose-grotesque, fitted to some lines of Ariosto.  Her head wore a close hood, disclosing a fringe of grey locks, owlish to see about features hooked for action.

‘Ah, you! there you are:  good—­I’ll join you in three minutes,’ she sang out to him, and cantered to the ridge.

Hardly beyond the stated number she was beside him again, ranging her steed for the victim log to dance a gyration on its branches across the lane and enter a field among the fallen compeers.  One of her men had run behind her.  She slid from her saddle and tossed him the reins, catching up her skirts.

‘That means war, as much as they’ll have it in England,’ she said, seeing his glance at the logs.  ’My husband’s wise enough to leave it to me, so I save him trouble with neighbours.  An ass of a Mr. Gilbert Addicote dares us to make good our claim on our property, our timber, because half a score of fir-tree roots go stretching on to his ground.’