"There was, in Yorkshire, a Major William Weatherby, who fought against the Parliament--I did not know him, for I was but a stripling at the time--who, when King Charles was beheaded, went over and took service with the States General, and at Arnheim married a lady of the name of Verheyden. Getting tired of the wars, he came back to England with his wife, where they lived together five or six years without children. The story goes that he was a man of fierce and crooked temper; choleric, and unreasonable in his quarrel; and for jealousy, no devil ever equalled him in that amiable virtue. It was said, too, that his living was riotous and unthrifty, which is, in part, the customary sin of soldiership.--I am frank with you, masters." "You are a good judge, Captain; you have had experience," said the publican. "There was a man of some mark in the country where this Weatherby lived, a Sir George Alwin, who, taking pity on the unhappy lady, did her sundry acts of kindness--harmless acts, people say; such as you or I, neighbours, would be moved to do for a distressed female; but the lady was of rare beauty, and the husband full of foul fancies. "About this time, it was unlucky that nature wrought a change, and the lady grew lusty for the first time in six years marriage. To make the story short, Weatherby was free with his dagger, and in the street, at Doncaster, in the midst of a public show, he stabbed Alwin to the heart." The wood ranger silently shook his head, and the publican opened his watery eyes in astonishment. "By the aid of a fleet horse and private enemies of the murdered man, Weatherby escaped out of the kingdom, and was never afterwards heard of." "And died like a dog, I s'pose," said Arnold de la Grange. "Likely enough," replied Dauntrees.