The Squire’s large curtained pew was on the north side of the chancel, Mr. Polwhele’s next. Opposite, and facing it, was John Trevanion’s. The master of the Dower House looked particularly fresh and cheerful when he strode up the aisle to his place. He smiled a greeting to one or two families with whom he was acquainted, carefully avoiding his relatives. The village folk clattered in; the band in the gallery above the door tuned up their instruments; the toneless bell ceased to ring, and Mr. Carlyon having made his solemn entry, the service began. The Vicar had just come to the end of the second lesson when, through a postern leading from the tower, came Petherick with a face full of news. He hastened to the reading desk, touched Mr. Carlyon on the sleeve, and said in a church whisper: "Please, yer reverence——" "Not now, Petherick," the Vicar whispered back. "Go to your seat." "I bean’t in fault, and say it I woll," said the man. Then in a low tone, which, in the breathless silence of the congregation, penetrated to the remotest corner of the gallery, he added: "Maister Mildmay and riding-officer was in belfry, tied round the middle to bell." "God bless my soul!" murmured the astonished Vicar unconsciously. "This is unseemly," he said sternly: "’tis brawling. Go to your place, Petherick." The beadle marched to his seat under the pulpit with the air of one who had spoken his mind and scorned rebuke. Those of the congregation who had been in the secret tittered when he made his announcement; the larger number, who were vaguely aware that something had happened to the officers, but did not know its nature, gazed at one another with startled looks, which speedily changed to smiles. The occupants of the Squire’s pew alone preserved their composure. Mr. Carlyon’s stern look silenced the giggles and whispers of the frivolous, and the service proceeded. The hymn had been sung, the Vicar was in the midst of the prayer for the King’s Majesty, and had just recited the words "our most gracious sovereign Lord King George," when a man quietly entered from the outer porch, and stood within the church beneath the gallery. The heads of the congregation were bent forward, so that his presence was unnoticed. The prayer came to an end; everybody said "Amen," but one voice rose above all the rest. It was that of the new-comer. Tonkin, in his pew a few paces down the aisle, started and turned his head like one thunderstruck. A bruise was noticeable on his right cheek. All held their breath as Joe Penwarden marched steadily down the aisle to his seat near the riding-officer’s. As he passed the Vicar, he raised his hand to the salute, then knelt quietly at his place, where the coloured sunbeam, streaming in through the south window, lit up his weather-beaten face.