He could recall the dark hours, when as fair-haired children, they had cowered together in one of the tapestried rooms of Rhoscadzhel, and clasped each other's hands and necks in fear of those hob-goblins, which people the very rock and cavern, and even the very air of Cornwall. Downie was a man now, legal in bearing, and cold-blooded in heart. Richard had painful doubts of him, and remembered, that, strangely enough his hand _alone_, had always failed to rock the logan-stone in the lawn before Rhoscadzhel, and such monuments of antiquity, have, according to Mason, the properties of an ordeal--the test of truth and probity: "Behold yon huge And unhewn sphere of living adamant, Which, poised by magic, rests its central weight On yonder pointed rock: firm as it seems, Such is its strange and virtuous property, It moves obsequious to the gentlest touch Of him whose heart is pure; but to a traitor, Tho' e'en a giant's prowess nerv'd his arm, It stands as fixed as Snowdon!" Even the childish hands of his little daughter Gartha, could rock the logan-stone, when Downie's failed to do so. Why was this? Was there indeed any truth in the ancient test of integrity and purity of heart; or was it but an engine of religious imposition? And now amid these unpleasant speculations, there came to the loiterer's ear, the tolling of a distant bell. He started up, and listened. It was, beyond a doubt, the house-bell of Rhoscadzhel, and was being rung violently and continuously, for the breeze brought the notes distinctly over the furzy waste. What could have happened? Fire--or was he wanted in haste? Was his uncle indisposed; were his fears, his hopes and wishes, though blended with sorrow, to be realised at last? His breath came thick and painfully, and he remembered with something of foreboding--for his Cornish breeding rendered him superstitious and impressionable--that as he had passed Larnorna church that morning, he had seen, on the rough lichstones at the entrance to the sequestered church-yard, a coffin rested prior to interment, while the soft sad psalmody of those who had borne it thither--a band of hardy miners--floated through the still and ambient air; for the custom of bearing the dead to their last resting place with holy songs--a usage in the East, as old as the fourth century--is still observed in Cornwall, that land of quaint traditions and picturesque old memories. Springing to his feet, Richard Trevelyan discharged both barrels of his gun into the air, and hurried in the direction of the manor house. As he drew nearer, the sonorous clangour of the great bell, which was now rung at intervals, but with great vigour, continued to increase, adding to the surprise and tumult of his heart, and the perturbation of his spirit. CHAPTER IV. POWDERED WITH TEARS.