“A month ago there was four dozen of ’em,” he said; “now theer be ezacally three dozen an’ two. An’ as for your cat, maybe I have shutt un, an’ maybe I have not, so now.” “You ought to be stringed up for it, you grizzly, auld, crook-back coward! I knaw very well you done it; an’ you’ll awnly be sorry once, and that’s for ever. Doan’t suppose you’ve heard the last of this. But I must take thought afore I gets upsides with you.” He turned, went into the house and spoke to Milly. The man had aged strangely in five minutes, his voice grew squeaky and unsteady. “He’ve—he’ve shutt un. He’ve shutt my cat!” Then Mr. Sage took his stick an’ walked out upon the Moor to reflect and to consider what his life would be without his treasure. He wept a little, for he was not a man of strong intellect. Then his painful tears were scorched up, and he breathed threatenings and slaughter. He tramped back to Postbridge with a mind made up, and bawled his determination over the party-wall at Amos Oldreive’s back. “Your son shan’t have my darter now—not if he travels on his naked knees from here to Exeter for her. No darter of mine shall marry the child of a dirty murderer! That’s what you be; an’ all men shall knaw it; an’ I pray God your birds’ll get the pip to the last one among ’em, an’ come they grows, I pray God they’ll choke the man as eats ’em; an’ if I weern’t so auld an’ so weak in the loins, be gormed if I wouldn’t come over the wall this minute an’ wring your skinny neck, you cruel, unlawful beast!” Mr. Oldreive looked round and cast one glance at a spot ten yards’ distant, where the black earth looked as though newly upturned, near an apple tree. But he said not a word, only spat on his hands and proceeded with his digging. A dreadful week passed, and Mr. Sage’s mingled emotions and misfortunes resulted in an attack of gout. He remained singularly silent under this trial, but once broke into activity and his usual vigour of speech when his old friend sent him a dozen good trout from Dart, and a hope that his neighbour would let bygones be bygones. These excellent fish, despite his foot, Mr. Sage flung one by one through his bedroom window into Amos Oldreive’s front garden; for what were trout to him with no ‘Corban’ to share them? Behind the scenes of this tragedy Ted and Milly dwelt dismally on their own future. He clung to it that if the banns could but be asked a third time without interference, Mr. Sage was powerless; Milly, however, believed that she knew better. “I be only eighteen,” she explained, “an’ faither’s my guardian to do as he will with me until I come of age.”