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Barwick hath told in Bideford, making thereby such mirth that I can no longer abide there but must needs flit about the country. And lo! even thou, who by speech and coat are not of this country at all, dost challenge me by the very words he used.”

Phil lay meditating on the queer fate that had placed those words in his mouth. “Who,” he said at last, “is this Sir John?”

“‘who is Sir John?’” The fellow turned and looked at him. “You have come from farther than I thought, not to know Sir John Bristol.”

“Sir John Bristol? I cannot say I have heard that name.”

“Hast never heard of Sir John Bristol? In faith, thou art indeed a stranger hereabouts. He is a harsh man withal, and doubtless my ill harvest was the judgement of God upon me for hiring myself to serve a cruel, blasphemous knight who upholdeth episcopacy and the Common Prayer book.”

“And whom,” asked the lad, “do you serve now?”

“Ah! I, who would make a skillful, faithful, careful steward, am teaching a school of small children, and erecting horoscopes for country bumpkins, so low has that harsh knight's ill-considered jest cast me. ‘’T was worth the money,’ quoth he; but it had paid him in golden guineas had he had the wit and patience to wait another year.” The fellow closed his eyes, tossed back is long hair, and pressed his hands on his forehead. “Never, never,” he cried, “was a man assaulted with such diversity of thoughts!”

Philip Marsham contemplated him as if from a distance and though that never was there a long-haired scarecrow better suited for the butt of a thousand jests.