"O Robin!" cried Kate, running to him from the door. "The sun is shining again. It was raining so fast all the morn; and now the sun is come, and all the little drops are so pretty in the sunshine. Come and see! They are so pretty shining on the roses."

Robin rose to follow her, with the first smile (though a mournful one) that Isoult had seen flit across his face.

"Kate is the better comforter, Dr Thorpe, and hath learned the sweeter lesson," he said. "At least she hath learned it me. You would have me count the chastening joyous, even at this present: G.o.d's word pointeth to the joyousness to come. 'Blessed are they that mourn,--for they shall be comforted.'"

And he went after Kate.

For a few days more after Robin's coming all was quiet. No one came to inquire for him, and they began to hope the worst was over. But late on the Sunday evening, which was the seventh of July, suddenly there came a rapping on the door. And there, to the surprise of all, stood Dr Thorpe.

"Welcome, good friend!" said Avery; "but your occasion should be great to have you forth this even."

"So it is," said he. "Is it not bed-time, Mrs Avery?"

"In very deed, Doctor," she answered. "We were going above but now."

"Leave the lad and the maids go, then," said he, "and you and Jack bide a s.p.a.ce."

So the maids and Robin departed.

"What is it, Doctor?" asked Avery, when they were gone.

"What it is, Jack," said Dr Thorpe, who sat in the corner with his hands upon his knees, "is a great burning mountain that is at this moment quiet. What it may be, is a great rushing and overflowing of the fiery matter, that shall deal death all around. And what it will be--the Lord G.o.d knoweth, and He only."

"You speak in parables, Doctor," replied Avery.

"The safest matter to speak at this time," answered he.

"You look for a new riot, an' I take you rightly."

"Hardly for a riot," the other answered. "Is the door fast?"

"I bolted it after you," said Avery.

Doctor Thorpe drew his chair closer, and spoke in a low, earnest voice.

"Not a riot," he said. "Say an uprising--a civil war--a mighty rebellion of all that be under, against all that be above. Men that will know no ruler, and bear no curb--little afraid to speak evil of dignities, or to do evil against them. 'We are, and there is none beside us:' yea, 'we are the people, and wisdom shall die with us.'"

"There be such spirits alway," answered Avery, "but, I thank G.o.d, rarely so many come together as shall do a mischief."

"There shall be mischief enough done in Cornwall and Devon within the next month or twain," said Dr Thorpe, gloomily. "I see more than you; and I am come to tell you of somewhat that nearly toucheth both you and me. A year gone or thereabout, I was a-riding from Bodmin on the Truro way, when I was aware of a little ragged lad that sat by the roadside, the tears a-rolling down his not over clean face. I drew bridle, and asked the lad what ailed him. He told me his mother did lie at death's door, not far thence. 'Hath she any doctor or apothecary?' quoth I.

'Nay,' saith he, 'neither the priest nor the apothecary would come without money, and father hath not a penny.' Well, I 'light from mine horse, and throwing his bridle athwart mine arm, I bade the lad lead me to his mother, for I was a physician, and could maybe do her some good.

I found her under an hedge, with nought save a ragged rug to cover her, twain other children beside clamouring for bread, and her husband, a rugged sullen-faced man, weaving of rushes for baskets. All they were dark-faced folk, and were, I take it, of that Egyptian [gipsy] crew that doth over-run all countries at times. I saw in a moment that though beyond their skill, her disorder was not (with G.o.d's blessing) beyond mine; yet it did require speedy remedy to serve her. The physic that I fetched for her quickly gave her ease, and I was something astonied at the blessings which the husband did heap upon me when I departed from them. Methought, though he were rugged of face, yet he must be a man that had some power of affection. Well, the woman amended, and all they left that part. I heard no more of them sithence, until late last night, as I was a-riding home, very nigh the same place, all suddenly an hand was laid upon my bridle. An highwayman, thought I; and I remembered that I had little money upon me. But in the stead of easing me of my purse, mine highwayman put unto me a strange question.--'What is your name, and where dwell you?'--'Verily,' said I, 'I might ask the same of you. But sithence I am in no wise ashamed neither of my name nor my dwelling-place, know you, that the one is Stephen Thorpe, and the other is Bodmin. What more would you?'--'Your calling?'--'A physician.'--'Enough,' quoth my strange questioner. 'I pray you to alight from your horse, and have no fear of me. I will do you no harm; I would not hurt you for a thousand pieces in good red gold. I want neither your money (howsoever much it be) nor your valuables that may be on you. Only, I pray you, let us two whisper together a season.'--'In good sooth,' said I, 'I have nought to whisper unto you.'--'But I have to you,' saith he, 'and what I say must not be spoken aloud. You would trust me if you knew what I would have.'--'Well, friend,' quoth I, 'for a friend metrusteth you be, I will do as you bid me. All the money I have upon me is but some few shillings, and to them, if you lack, you are welcome. For valuable matter, I carry none; and I myself am an old man, no longer of much service unto any. If you desire me to ply my trade of healing, I am content; but I warn you that by murdering of me you should gain little beside an evil conscience.'--So with that I 'lighted down.--'Throw the bridle on your arm,' saith he, 'and follow me.'--So, linking his arm in mine, he drew me (for it was pitch dark, and how he found his way I know not) aside from the road, unto a small forsaken and ruinated hut that stood on the common.--'Stand where you be a moment,' quoth he; and striking the tinder, he lit a rush candle.

'Now, know you me?' saith he. 'Not a whit better than afore,' quoth I.--He blew out the candle.--'You have forgot my face,' he saith. 'Mind you a year gone, ministering unto a dying woman (as was thought), in this place, under an hedge, whereby you did recover her of her malady?'--'I know you now,' said I; 'you are that woman's husband.'

'Then you are aware,' answereth he, 'that I would do you no hurt.'--'Say on,' quoth I.--'Suffer me,' saith he, 'to ask you certain questions.'--'So be it,' said I.--Then he,--'Is your house in Bodmin your own?'--'It is so,' answered I, marvelling if he were about to ask me for mine house.--'Sell it,' quoth he, 'and quickly.'--'Wherefore?'

answered I.--'I pa.s.sed no word touching your questions,' quoth he, grimly.--'In good sooth,' said I, 'this is a strange matter, for a man to be bidden to sell his house, and not told wherefore.'--'You shall see stranger things than that,' he answered, 'ere your head be h.o.a.rier by twain s'ennight from now.'--'Well! say on,' quoth I.--'Have you,'

pursueth he, 'any money lent unto any friend, or set out at usury? You were best to call it in, if you would see it at all.'--'Friend,' said I, 'my money floweth not in so fast that my back lacketh it not so soon as it entereth my purse.'--'The better,' quo' he.--'Good lack!' said I, 'I alway thought it the worse.'--'The worse afore, the better now,' he answered. 'But once more--have you any friend you would save from peril?'--And I,--'Why, I would save any from peril that I saw like to fall therein.'--'Then,' quoth he, 'give them privily the counsel that I now give you. If the sun find you at Bodmin,--yea, any whither in Cornwall or Devon--twain s'ennights hence, he shall not set on you alive. Speak not another word. Mount your horse, and go.'--I strave, however, to say another word unto him, but not one more would he hearken. 'Go!' he crieth again, so resolute and determinedly that I did go. Now, I fear greatly that this man did tell me but truth, and that some fearful rising of the commons is a-brewing. I shall surely take his counsel, and go hence. What say you, Jack? Shall we go together?"

There was dead silence for a minute. Isoult's head was in a whirl.

At last her husband said slowly, "What sayest thou, Isoult?"

"Jack," she replied, "whither thou art will I be."

"And that shall be--whither?" asked Dr Thorpe. "It must be no whither within Cornwall or Devon."

"But we have not enclosed," objected Avery, answering rather his thoughts than his words.

"I doubt," he answered, "whether they shall wait to ask that."

"For me," Avery resumed, "I have friends in London, and Isoult likewise; and if I thought it should be long ere we may turn again, thither should I look to go rather than otherwhere. But an' it be for a few weeks, it should be unworth so long a journey."

"Weeks!" cried Dr Thorpe. "Say months, Jack, or years. For my part, I look not to see Bodmin again. But there be thirty years betwixt thee and me."

"In that case," said he, "and methinks you have the right--I say, London, if Isoult agree therewith. There should be room in that great city, I account, for both you and me to ply our several callings."

"Whither thou wilt, be it, Jack," said his wife, softly. "But Mother, and Hugh, and Bessy! And Frances at Potheridge, and Mrs Philippa at Crowe--what is to come of them, and who shall warn them?"

Dr Thorpe shook his head.

"Little time for all that, Mrs Avery," answered he. "Send, an' you will, to the two places--Potheridge and Crowe; but leave Potheridge to warn Wynscote, and Wynscote to warn Matcott and Bindon."

"Let Robin take the brown horse," suggested Avery, "and ride post with a letter from thee to Mrs Philippa; and Tom the white nag, and I will send him likewise to Mr Monke. I might have gone myself to one of the twain, but--"

"Nay, Jack! bide thou with me," entreated Isoult, fearfully.

"Well said," answered Dr Thorpe.

"Well!" Avery replied, "there seemeth little time to choose or bowne [prepare] us; but as the Italians have it, '_Che sara, sara_.' ['What will be, will be.'] When set we forth, Doctor?"

"Now, if we could," answered Dr Thorpe, significantly.

Preparations for the journey were made in haste, and without waiting for daylight. Robin and Tom were sent on horseback to Crowe and Potheridge, starting with the earliest gleam of dawn. Isoult summoned Jennifer, Barbara, and Ursula the cook, and asked whether they would cast in their lot with hers or remain in Cornwall. Jennifer answered that she feared the journey more than the commons, and the fourth of July was a very unlucky day on which to commence any undertaking: she would stay where she was. Ursula and Barbara, both of whom had been with their mistress ever since her marriage, replied that they would go with her now.

"Nor have I any of mine own that I may well go unto," Ursula added.

"Mine only brother dwelleth in Somerset, and he is but an husbandman, with little wages and a great sort of childre; and beside him I have no kin."

"My mother is wed again," Barbara explained, "and my father that now is should grudge to be troubled with me; and my sister, that is newly wedded, hath but one chamber in a poor man's house. I will hie after you, Mistress, an' you will have me."

This question being settled, another arose. Who should be left at Bradmond? Tom was too necessary for the journey; besides which, he was ignorant of the arts of reading and writing, and would not be able to send word how matters went on after their departure. In this emergency, while Isoult and John were talking over the subject, Barbara presented herself with a deprecatory courtesy, or rather lout.

"Mistress," said she, "if you and our master bethink not yourselves readily of any that should serve for to dwell here in your absence, I would you would think on Marian my sister, and her husband [fict.i.tious persons]. They should, I do know, be right willing to be set in charge; and Simon Pendexter (that is my brother) can right well read and write, for he hath been a schoolmaster; and is (though I say it) a sad and sober honest man, such as I do know you should be willing to use in this matter."

This information settled the question. Barbara was despatched to ask Simon and Marian if they would be willing to come, and she returned with a reply that they were not only willing, but thankful for the offer, and had no fear of the rioters.

In such arrangements time pa.s.sed on until the Friday evening, when Robin reached home from Crowe, bringing Philippa Ba.s.set with him. She expressed her grat.i.tude for the warning sent, and said that she was ready to go to London.

"As for Crowe," she said, "'tis Arthur his house, not mine; and to me all places be nigh alike. I set some seeds that I looked to see come up this next spring; but that is all I have to lose, save an old gown or twain, and the like. And," added she, turning away her head, "they will not harm what alone I care for--my dead."

On the Sunday morning came d.i.c.kon, Dr Thorpe's man, with a message from his master, desiring that all should be ready to set out by five o'clock on the following morning. "Bodmin," said he, "was plainly ill at ease: men gathered together in knots in the streets, and the like, with all manner of rumours and whisperings about; and if they were to go, go they must."