"Nay," said Steadfast. "I went down last night to the mill, Jeph, to
see whether perchance you might be hurt and wanting help, and after I
had heard that all was well with you, I lighted on this poor little
maid crouching under a bush, and brought her home with me for pity's
sake till I could find her friends."

"The child of a Midianitish woman!" exclaimed Jeph, "one of the Irish
idolaters of whom it is written, 'Thou shalt smite them, and spare
neither man, nor woman, infant, nor suckling.'" "But I am not
Irish," broke out Emlyn, "I am from Worcestershire. My father is
Serjeant Gaythorn, butler to Sir Harry Blythedale. Don't let him
kill me," she cried in an access of terror, throwing herself on
Steadfast's breast.

"No, no. He would not harm thee, on mine hearth. Fear not, little
one, he _shall_ not."

"Nay," said Jephthah, who, to do him justice, had respected the
rights of hospitality enough not to touch his weapon even when he
thought her Irish, "we harm not women and babes save when they are
even as the Amalekites. Let my brother go, child. I touch thee not,
though thou be of an ungodly seed; and I counsel thee, Steadfast,
touch not the accursed thing, but rid thyself thereof, ere thou be
defiled."

"I shall go so soon as father comes," exclaimed Emlyn. "I am sure I
do not want to stay in this mean, smoky hovel a bit longer than I can
help."

"Such are the thanks of the ungodly people," said Jeph, gravely