In the whole history of the abbey there is but one instance recorded
of a bandit attempting to take the place by storm, and the attack was
an emphatic failure. On receipt of one ladle full of molten lead,
aimed to a nicety by John the Novice, who seems to have been anything
but a novice at marksmanship, this warrior retired, done to a turn, to
his mountain fastnesses, and is never heard of again. He would seem,
however, to have passed the word round among his friends, for
subsequent raiding parties studiously avoided the abbey, and a peasant
who had succeeded in crossing its threshold was for the future
considered to be "home" and out of the game. Corven Abbey, as a
result, grew in power and popularity. Abbot succeeded abbot, the lake
at the foot of the hill was restocked at intervals, the lichen grew on
the walls; and still the abbey endured.

But time, assisted by his majesty, King Henry the Eighth, had done its
work. The monks had fled. The walls had crumbled, and in the twentieth
century, the abbey was a modern country house, and the owner a rich
American.

Of this gentleman the world knew but little. That he had made money,
and a good deal of it, was certain. His name, Patrick McEachern,
suggested Irish parentage, and a slight brogue, noticeable, however,
only in moments of excitement, supported this theory. He had arrived
in London some four years back, taken rooms at the Albany, and gone
into society.

England still firmly believes that wealth accrues to every resident of
New York by some mysterious process not understandable of the Briton.
McEachern and his money were accepted by society without question. His
solecisms, which at first were numerous, were passed over as so quaint