"Ees," murmured Thomasine, forgetting the "sir" somehow. The question was such a familiar one that she did not remember for the moment the standing of the speaker. This was the man who had drenched her with hell-fire from the pulpit. "How do ye come home? By the road or moor?" "The moor, if 'tis fine, sir. I walks with Willum." "Young Pugsley?" "Ees, sir." "You're too good for him. You're too fine a maid for that hind. You won't walk with him Sunday night. I'll see you home." "Ees, sir," was all Thomasine could say. She was only a farm-maid. She had to do as she was told. "Going to the fair?" he asked. The answer was as usual. "I'll meet you there. Take you for rides, and into the shows. Got your clothes ready?" The same soft word, which Thomasine made a dissyllable, and Boodles sang as an anthem, followed. Goose Fair was the greatest day in the girl's year, and to be treated there by a man with money was to glide along one of the four rivers of Paradise, only that was not the expression which occurred to Thomasine. Pendoggat reached in and took her hand. It was large with labour, and red with blood, but quite clean. He pulled her towards him. There was nobody in the court; only the unobservant chickens, pecking diligently. A cloud had settled upon the top of the tor, which was just visible above the barn, an angry cloud purple like a wound, as if the granite had pierced and wounded it. Thomasine wondered if it would be fine for Goose Fair. Her sleeve was loose. Pendoggat pressed his fingers under it, and paddled the soft flesh like a cat up to her elbow. "Don't ye, sir," pleaded Thomasine, feeling somehow this was not right. "You're a fine, lusty maid," he muttered. "'Tis time master was back from Lydford, I reckon," she murmured. "You're bloody." "'Twas that bit o' vuzz." He drew her closer, threw his arm clumsily round her neck, dragged her half through the window, kissing her savagely on the neck, lips, and chin, until his own lips were smeared with her blood, and he could taste it. She began to struggle. Then she cried out, and he let her go. "Good blood," he muttered, passing his tongue over his lips. "The strongest and best blood on Dartmoor." Then, he flung himself across his horse, as if he had been drunk, and rode out of the court. CHAPTER VI ABOUT VOCAL AND INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC