“Mr. Hennion is of good family,” answered Janice, with Spirit.

“Good family!” laughed the man, bitterly.  “No doubt he is.  Think you Phil Hennion is less the clout because he has a pedigree?  There are hogs in Yorkshire can show better genealogies than royalty.”

“’T is quite in keeping that a bond-servant should think little of blood,” retorted Janice, made angry by his open contempt.

“Blood!  Yes, I despise it, and so would you if you knew it as I do,” exclaimed Charles, hotly, cutting the air with his whip.  “That for all the blood in the world, unless there be honour with it,” he said.

“The fox did n’t want the grapes.”

“’T is no case of sour grapes, as you ’d know if I told you my story.”

“Oh!  I should monstrous like to hear it,” eagerly ejaculated Janice.

The man dropped the bridle and came to the porch.  “I swore it should die with me, but there ’s one woman in the world to whom—­” he began, and then checked himself as a figure came into view on the lawn out of the growing darkness.  “Who’s there?” Charles demanded.

“It’s me—­Joe Bagby,” was the answer, as that individual came forward.  “Is the squire home, miss?” he asked; and, receiving the reply that he was in his office, Joe volunteered the information that a wish to talk with the lord of Greenwood about the election was the motive of his call.  “I want to see if we can’t fix things between us.”

Scarcely had he spoken when there was a sudden rush of men, who seemed to appear from nowhere, and at the same instant Joe gave a shove to the bond-servant, which, being entirely unexpected, sent him sprawling on the grass, where he was pinioned by two of the party.

“Keep your mouth shut, or I’ll have to choke you,” said Bagby to Janice, as she opened her mouth to scream.  “Two of you stand by her and keep her quiet.  Sharp now, fellows, he’s in his office.  Have him out, and some of you start a fire, quick.”

The orders were obeyed with celerity, and as some rushed into the hall and dragged forth the squire, struggling, the scene was lighted by the blazing up of a bunch of hay, which had appeared as if by magic, and on which sticks of wood were quickly burning.  Over the fire a pot, swung on a stick upheld by two men, was placed, telling a story of intention only too obvious.

“There is n’t any sort of use swearing like that, squire,” said Bagby.  “We’ve got a thing or two to say, and if you won’t listen to it quiet, why, we’ll fill your mouth with a lump of tar, to give you something to chew on while we say it.  Cussing did n’t prevent your being a babe in the wood, and it won’t prevent our giving you a bishop’s coat; so if you don’t want it, have done, and listen to what we have to propose.”

“Well?” demanded the squire.

“We’ve stood your conduct just as long as it was possible, squire,” went on Bagby, “and been forbearing, hoping you ’d mend your ways.  But it ’s no use, and so we’ve come up this evening to give you a last chance to put yourself right, for we’re a peace-loving, law-abiding lot, and don’t want to use nothing but moral suasion, as the parson puts it, unless you make us.”