CHAPTER III.

THE HUT ON THE HEATH.

Far away from the lofty, battlemented ancestral home of Sir Jasper
Kingsland--straight to the seashore went Achmet the Astrologer. A long
strip of bleak marshland spreading down the hill-side and sloping to
the sea, arid and dry in the summer-time--sloppy and sodden now--that
was his destination. It was called Hunsden's Heath--a forlorn and
desolate spot, dotted over with cottages of the most wretched kind. To
one of these wretched hovels, standing nearest the sea and far removed
from the rest, Achmet swiftly made his way.

The sun was high in the heavens; the sea lay all a-glitter beneath it.
The astrologer had got over the ground at a swift, swinging stride, and
he had walked five miles at least; but he paused now, with little sign
of fatigue in his strange white face. Folding his arms over his
breast, he surveyed the shining sky, the glittering sea, with a slow,
dreamy smile.

"The sun shines and the sea sparkles on the natal day of the heir of
Kingsland," he said to himself; "but for all that it is a fatal day to
him. 'The sins of the father shall be visited on the children even to
the third and fourth generation,' saith the Book Christians believe in.
Christians!" he laughed a harsh, strident laugh. "Sir Jasper Kingsland
is a Christian! The religion that produces such men must be a glorious
one. He was a Christian when he perjured himself and broke her heart.
'Tis well. As a Christian he can not object to the vengeance