“You never saw a masterer, that’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it? Well, and take one thing with another, nor did I, George, if that’s any comfort to you. Now look here, just cover over this hole with some boards and earth, and then come in and get some breakfast. It’s past eight o’clock and the gale is blowing itself out. A merry Christmas to you, George!” and he held out his hand, covered with cuts, grime and blood. George shook it. “Same to you, Colonel, I’m sure. And a merry Christmas it is. God bless you, sir, for what you’ve done to-night. You’ve saved the old place from that banker chap, that’s what you’ve done; and you’ll hev Miss Ida, and I’m durned glad on it, that I am. Lord! won’t this make the Squire open his eyes,” and the honest fellow brushed away a tear and fairly capered with joy, his red nightcap waving on the wind. It was a strange and beautiful sight to see the solemn George capering thus in the midst of that storm-swept desolation. Harold was too moved to answer, so he shouldered his last load of treasure and limped off with it to the house. Mrs. Jobson and her talkative niece were up now, but they did not happen to see him, and he reached his room unnoticed. He poured the last bagful of gold into the chest, smoothed it down, shut the lid and locked it. Then as he was, covered with filth and grime, bruised and bleeding, his hair flying wildly about his face, he sat down upon it, and from his heart thanked heaven for the wonderful thing that had happened to him. So exhausted was he that he nearly fell asleep as he sat, but remembering himself rose, and taking the parchment from his pocket cut the faded silk with which it was tied and opened it. On it was a short inscription in the same crabbed writing which he had seen in the old Bible that Ida had found. It ran as follows: “Seeing that the times be so troublous that no man can be sure of his own, I, Sir James de la Molle, have brought together all my substance in money from wheresoever it lay at interest, and have hid the same in this sepulchre, to which I found the entry by a chance, till such time as peace come back to this unhappy England. This have I done on the early morn of Christmas Day, in the year of our Lord 1642, having ended the hiding of the gold while the great gale was blowing. “James de la Molle.” Thus on a long gone Christmas Day, in the hour of a great wind, was the gold hid, and now on this Christmas Day, when another great wind raged overhead, it was found again, in time to save a daughter of the house of de la Molle from a fate sore as death. CHAPTER XLII. IDA GOES TO MEET HER FATE