Mr. Yates drank, then colour returned to his little grey face and he passed his glass for a second dose. “I could discourse upon this theme at very considerable length,” he said; “but the matter calls for deeds rather than words, or perhaps I should say both.” “No doubt, as a man of God, your duty do lie clear afore you, if I may say so respectful,” ventured Robert Bluett; and the pastor admitted that it was so. “By the help of Heaven these unhappy beings, that here dwell midway between earth and heaven, must be laid to rest,” he said. “Thaumaturgy, or working of miracles, can only still subsist at the desire of Jehovah, and if He wills that I liberate these funereal spirits to their rest, I can do it, not otherwise.” “I lay you’ll do it, such a holy man as you,” foretold Johnny Cramphorn, genially. “But, for God’s love, don’t mess it up,” added Mr. Bluett, “’cause if you make any error, they’ll rend ’e to tatters.” “If Heaven wills and my health permits, I go on Tuesday night in all the dignity and power of my calling,” declared Parson Yates; “and now I will thank you to see me home, such among you as journey on my way.” A few men departed with their pastor; Cramphorn settled to his last pipe and glass beside the fire; and Robert Bluett went upon his nocturnal duties. For, since his arrival, things were mightily changed at Daleham; keen eyes never closed on sea or land; most perfect cordons had been established and a sure system extended far to east and west. It was admitted that with such parole of cliffs and coombs, such searching scrutiny by night and day of every dark lane, lonely road and seaward-facing cavern, that not so much as a runlet of spirits could swim unrecorded into Daleham or ride out of it. How Merry Jonathan under these distracting circumstances could continue to be merry, his friends and neighbours wondered. Indeed, twice within a week he had brought back from the sea pollock and conger—his legitimate objects of pursuit at this season. But that Jonathan Godbeer should sell fish was a significant sign of the times, and already folks said that Mr. Cramphorn was avenged. CHAPTER IV Gentle snow fell through a grey night as a party of men and women marched up Red Hill upon the following Tuesday evening. An invisible moon made all this clear. Parson Yates led the way with his cassock hitched out of the snow and with a stout boy on either side of him. One lad bore a candle, and the other, a little bell. “Butivul night for a holy deed, I’m sure,” said Mr. Cramphorn. Mrs. Pearn, Jenifer and Mr. Bluett walked beside him and a dozen villagers accompanied them. The matter, however, at their pastor’s desire had been kept as far as possible from the general ear.