"I mean what I say," answered he. "Everybody knows Measter Frank Vavasour is dead, AND buried."

My head began to whirl, and I leaned against the wall to steady myself.

The smith and his man whispered together.

"Do you know particulars of this pretended death?" at length I asked.

"Particulars? I should think I do," answered Johnson, nodding to his man, who went out. "The young gentleman's body was found in the pool in Belgrave Park a week ago last Sunday, shockingly disfigured, for the eels had been at his face, but he was swore to at the inquest by his manservant and his own father. His friends had been looking for him high and low, for more than a week, when they dragged the pool."

The innkeeper paused at this.

"Go on," I said hoa.r.s.ely. So Boswell's craft had dressed some other man in my clothes and mangled his face.

"At the inquest, Luke Barnby, who had been the young squire's bodyservant, told how one of the Dutchmen had tried to take his master's life, and how Master Frank went out to fight the Dutchman on Sunday, the very Sunday before the one he was found, and had never been seen or heard of since. So order was given to arrest the Dutchman, and they took him."

Again the narrator paused.

"Well, what next?" I asked.

"They took him," repeated Johnson, "but they didn't keep him long.

Some of the Belton and Beltoft people went by night meaning to tear the murderer limb from limb, and even some of the gipsies, that's been thereabout so long, joined 'em. They broke into the outhouse at Squire Stovin's, where he was locked up, but somehow he got away."

What more easy trick could have been played? The gipsies had befooled the rest in the darkness, and smuggled Vliet out of danger.

Fierce rage against my persecutors restored to me the wits which had been scattered in my first consternation.

"All this you have told me is a pack of lies. I don't mean that you have lied," I added, noting the heat in the man's face, "but it is a diabolical plot. Another man has been buried under my name--a man who was dressed in my clothing, and his features obliterated cunningly. I am Frank Vavasour, and have been kept prisoner in the vaults of Melwood Priory while this devilry was doing. Remove this thing from my leg.

Let me have a room, and soap and water. Tell your people to get me pen, ink, and paper. Have a lad in readiness to ride to Temple Belwood, and another to go to Tudworth Hall."

"And who's to pay, my lad? The mistress will charge high for letting a room to the like o' you. I don't send horse and man up and down the country till I see the colour of your money. Pay to-day and trust to-morrow is my motto."

"There will be no difficulty about that. My friends will----"

"No, it won't do, my man," said mine host. "Look ye, there's a pump in the yard. You can wash there, and welcome, and then do your own errands on Shanks his pony."

Seeing I should but waste time by tarrying, I got the fellow to release me from the leg-iron, and going to the pump, I made such shift as I could to cleanse my face and hands, and put my clothing into somewhat more decent array. When I saw the image of myself in the water, I no longer wondered that my tale should appear incredible, for I could scarce believe my own eyes. The flattened and twisted nose, and the scar across my cheek, had given me a look simply villainous.

The sooner the better I found myself among those who knew me, thought I, and I hurried forward with a brief good day to mine host, who stood at the smithy door staring and scratching his head, as if in some perplexity.

I made straight for Temple Belwood, where I might find Luke; nor was I quite without hope that my father might be inclined to reconciliation with a son who had come back from the dead. As I pa.s.sed Belton church I caught sight of a woman seated on a flat tombstone, her back toward me, whose figure and att.i.tude reminded me of Bess Boswell, and I entered the yard to get a nearer view. At the sound of my footfall she turned, and I saw it was the gipsy girl, her face tear-stained and woebegone.

"Ulceby!" she cried. "You here! Do you know there are soldiers about?"

"That is not my name," I answered. "Don't you know me, Bess?"

She rose from the stone, stepped closely up to me, and looked wonderingly into my face, with one hand fluttering about her breast.

Then she sank back upon the tombstone, still keeping her eyes fixed on me, and said--

"Oh yes; I know your voice; I know your eyes. But where have you been?

And who lies there?"--pointing to a new-made grave. "Your servant swore it was you. Your father swore so. Speak again. Let me touch you."

She rose, trembling all over, and reached out her hand. I took hold of it, and drew her down to the stone, seating myself beside her.

"Who has done that h.e.l.lish work on your face? No; don't tell me, not yet."

She hid her face in her hands, shuddering.

"That has been done to give me the semblance of the man you named just now. And this too," I said, baring my chest, showing a crown and anchor, and the letters J.U.

"Who is Ulceby?" I asked.

"A soldier, who escaped from Lincoln, after striking one of the officers, and being condemned to be sent to the plantations. He came to us for hiding. He had the ague badly, and was taken to safer and better quarters, so I was told. That was just before I was sent to Horncastle fair, and on to Corby, and Spalding, and Stamford, because my father must stay to attend to Ulceby. And he seemed to be so much concerned about the deserter, that I thought no evil could be brewing against you just then, and so I was far away when mischief was doing.

But I don't understand. Where were you?"

I told how I was captured, imprisoned, mutilated, and how I had escaped.

"This Ulceby must have died on your father's, hands," continued I, "and he conceived the design of taking me, putting my clothes on the dead man, corroding his face, and sinking the body in Belgrave pond."

By the girl's face, when I said that Ulceby must have died on her father's hands, I saw she thought of a darker probability. When I had ended my narrative, she remained silent awhile. When she spoke, it was to say that the mystery of my disfigurement was beyond her; why Boswell should have spared my life, when it was so easy to take it, she could not understand.

"He must have been confident of handing you over to the soldiers himself. Perhaps he meant to put a finishing touch to his work. I have heard him say horrible things, boasting of what can be done by a pin-p.r.i.c.k."

"Thank G.o.d, I am safe from him. I shall be at Temple shortly."

"Ah! but, of course, you don't know that Temple is shut up. Your father left almost as soon as the funeral was over. Some of his neighbours had called upon him to keep his promise of helping to drive out the foreigners as the law was powerless, and he quarrelled with them. He went away, vowing never to return, so they say."

So vanished for the present my hope of reconciliation with him.

"My old tutor?"

"Died a fortnight ago."

"And Luke Barnby?"

"I have heard nothing of him. I know little of what has been doing in the Isle, for I came back only yesterday morning. I did not hear of your death till then."

She paused with some choking in the throat, but in a moment resumed--

"You must lose no time in making yourself known to your friends. If the soldiers find you before that is done, they will drag you off to Hull."

"Where are these soldiers?" I asked.

"Some in Epworth, and some in Crowle," she replied.

Now I understood the by-play at the Bull. The blacksmith's man had gone to seek the officer, and the smith had not ventured to attempt to hold me until the soldiers came. Perhaps he had not felt entirely comfortable at the thought of giving up a poor wretch to life-long misery. I told Bess of the colloquy.

"Oh, you must go," she cried. "They may be on your track already."

"I will push on to my aunt's--to the Crowle vicarage," I answered.