“Well,” grumbled he at last, “we can at least ease our minds by going straight to the parson’s house, and bestowing upon him our opinion of his conduct, and some advice as to the future. And thank the Lord he’s lost his run with the hounds to-day!” Lieutenant Tregenna was not likely to object to any proposal which promised to bring him within speaking distance of Mistress Joan; so they set their horses at a smart trot, and were back in the village without much loss of time. When they got to the Parsonage, it was the master himself who answered their summons, with, they fancied, a rather guilty look on his face. “Can we speak a word with you, sir?” said the brigadier, in a short, dry tone. “You know whence we come, as I think.” “Ay, come in, come in. You are both heartily welcome,” said the vicar, pushing his wig to one side of his head, as his custom was when he was troubled or perplexed. “You shall taste of my daughter’s currant wine, and drink the health of his Majesty.” “’Twould be more to the purpose, sir, with all thanks to you for your hospitality,” replied the brigadier, “if you would assist his Majesty’s troops in the execution of their duty, instead of doing what you can to impede them.” “How say you, sir? What mean you?” retorted the parson sturdily, as he turned upon them, apparently glad to find that things had so quickly come to a crisis. He had led his visitors into the little dining-parlor, which was one-half of the lower part of what had once been a fine hall. The roof was low, and the beams were roughly whitewashed like the rest of the ceiling. A small window, with latticed panes, was set in the thickness of the wall on the front side of the house. Opposite the door was the old wide hearth, the upper part filled with curiously carved woodwork, and a comfortable wooden armchair in the corner on each side. On the high shelf above were a couple of brass candlesticks, each containing a tallow candle, in that time of rushlights quite a luxurious extravagance. On the oak dining-table in the middle of the room were the parson’s writing materials, his bunch of quills, round jar of ink, half a dozen rough sheets of paper, and a sand-box. And beside them was his pipe, just laid down. Two strips of carpet laid on the stone floor; red window curtains; half a dozen solid oak chairs with tapestry seats, and a couple of ancient oak chests, completed the furniture of the room, which yet had a comfortable and homely aspect. “What mean you by saying I impede his Majesty’s troops in the execution of their duty?” repeated Parson Langney, standing in all the pugnacious dignity of the church militant, with his back to the fire, and his wig more on one side than ever.