and stamping with the heels of their jack-boots on the bright red
pantiles of the hall. The eighth intruder followed --a tall, thin
man, pale-faced and stern and young, with a heavy horseman's cloak
falling from his shoulders, the front of which was gathered up
across his arms. A handsome and yet worn face --the face of one who
had seen better days and kown brighter times--a picturesque kind
of vagabond, take him in the candle-light. He raised his hat and
bowed low to Sophie Tarne, not offering to shake hands as the rest
of them had done who where crowding around her; then he seemed to
stand suddenly between them and their salutations, and to brush
them unceremoniously aside.

"You see to those horses, Stango and Grapp," he said, singling out
the most obtrusive and the most black-muzzled of his gang. "Mistress
Pemberthy will perhaps kindly trust us for a while with the keys
of the stables and corn-bins."

"They are here," said Sophie, detaching them from a bunch of keys
which, in true housewifely fashion, hung from her girdle. "The farm
servants are away in the village, or they should help you, sir."

"We are in the habit of helping ourselves-very much," said one of
the highwaymen, drily. "Pray don't apologise on that score, mistress."

Two of the men departed; five of them stalked into the farm parlour,
flourishing their big hats and executing clumsy scrapings with
their feet while bowing in mock fashion to the two nervous widows,
who sat in one corner regarding them askance: the leader of these
lawless ones dropped his cloak from his shoulders, left it trailing
on the pantile floor, and made a rapid signal with his hand to