There is little more to tell. By dint of careful nursing, poor Allen was enabled to travel; he reached Mentone, and there the mistral ended him. He was a lonely man, with no kinsfolk; his character was cleared among the people who knew him best; the others have forgotten him. Nobody can be injured by this explanation of his silence when called on to prove his innocence, and of his unusually successful vanishing from a society which had never tried very hard to discover him in his retreat. He has lived and suffered and died, and left behind him little but an incident in the History of the Unexplained. THE COMPLETE BUNGLER SCENE I.--HAMPSHIRE PISCATOR ANGLUS. PISCATOR SCOTUS Scotus.--Well, now let's go to your sport of angling. Where, Master, is your river? Anglus.--Marry, 'tis here; mark you, this is the famous Test. Scotus.--What, Master, this dry ditch? There be scarce three inches of water in it. Anglus.--Patience, Scholar, the water is in the meadows, or Master Oakley, the miller, is holding it up. Nay, let us wait here some hour or so till the water is turned on. Or perchance, Scholar, for the matter of five shillings, Master Oakley will even raise his hatches, an you have a crown about you. Scotus.--I like not to part with my substance, but, as needs must, here, Master, is the coin. [Exit ANGLUS to the Mill. He returns. Anglus.--Now, Scholar, said I not so? The water is turned on again, and, lo you, at the tail of yonder stream, a fair trout is rising. You shall see a touch of our craft. [ANGLUS crawls on his belly into a tuft of nettles, where he kneels and flicks his fly for about ten minutes. Anglus.--Alas, he has ceased rising, and I am grievously entangled in these nettles. Come, Scholar, but warily, lest ye fright my fish, and now, disentangle my hook. Scotus.--Here is your hook, but, marry, my fingers tingle shrewdly with the nettles; also I marked the fish hasting up stream. Anglus.--Nay, come, we shall even look for another. Scotus.--Oh, Master, what is this? That which but now was dry ditch is presently salad bowl! Mark you how the green vegetables cover the waters! We shall have no sport. Anglus.--Patience, Scholar; 'tis but Master Hedgely's men, cutting the weeds above. We may rest us some hour or two, till they go by. Or, perchance, for a matter of five shillings-- Scotus.--Nay, Master, this English angling is over costly. The rent of your ditch is high, the expenses of travel are burdensome. In crawling through your nettles and thistles I have scratched my face, and torn my raiment, and I will not pay the labourer to cease labouring in his industry. Anglus.--Why then, _pazienza_, Scholar, or listen while I sing that sweet ditty of country contentment and an angler's life, writ by worthy Master Hackle long ago. SONG