black walnut tree I beheld Mr. Carvel pacing up and down in great unrest, his Gazette in his hand, while on the bench sat my uncle and the rector of St. Anne’s.  So occupied was each in his own thought that my coming was unperceived; and I paused in my steps, seized suddenly by an instinctive dread, I know not of what.  The fear of Mr. Carvel’s displeasure passed from my mind so that I cared not how soundly he thrashed me, and my heart filled with a yearning, born of the instant, for that simple and brave old gentleman.  For the lad is nearer to nature than the man, and the animal oft scents a danger the master cannot see.  I read plainly in Mr. Allen’s handsome face, flushed red with wine as it ever was, and in my Uncle Grafton’s looks a snare to which I knew my grandfather was blind.  I never rightly understood how it was that Mr. Carvel was deceived in Mr. Allen; perchance the secret lay in his bold manner and in the appearance of dignity and piety he wore as a cloak when on his guard.  I caught my breath sharply and took my way toward them, resolved to make as brave a front as I might.  It was my uncle, whose ear was ever open, that first heard my footstep and turned upon me.

“Here is Richard, now, father,” he said.

I gave him so square a look that he bent his head to the ground.  My grandfather stopped in his pacing and his eye rested upon me, in sorrow rather than in anger, I thought.

“Richard,” he began, and paused.  For the first time in my life I saw him irresolute.  He looked appealingly at the rector, who rose.  Mr. Allen was a man of good height and broad shoulders, with piercing black eyes, reminding one more of the smallsword than aught else I can think of.  And he spoke solemnly, in a deep voice, as though from the pulpit.

“I fear it is my duty, Richard, to say what Mr. Carvel cannot.  It grieves me to tell you, sir, that young as you are you have been guilty of treason against the King, and of grave offence against his Lordship’s government.  I cannot mitigate my words, sir.  By your rashness, Richard, and I pray it is such, you have brought grief to your grandfather in his age, and ridicule and reproach upon a family whose loyalty has hitherto been unstained.”

I scarce waited for him to finish.  His pompous words stung me like the lash of a whip, and I gave no heed to his cloth as I answered: 

“If I have grieved my grandfather, sir, I am heartily sorry, and will answer to him for what I have done.  And I would have you know, Mr. Allen, that I am as able as any to care for the Carvel honour.”

I spoke with a vehemence, for the thought carried me beyond myself, that this upstart parson his Lordship had but a year since sent among us should question our family reputation.

“Remember that Mr. Allen is of the Church, Richard,” said my grandfather, severely.

“I fear he has little respect for Church or State, sir,” Grafton put in.  “You are now reaping the fruits of your indulgence.”