"So ye see," he concluded, "he dussn’t show his face hereabouts again, for they two will swear to him afore Sir Bevil, and neither might nor power can save un. Seems to me as ye’ve met your match in young Squire." This opened the floodgates of rage, and the room rang with execrations and threats of vengeance. At last Tonkin declared that he would sail to Roscoff next day, hear Doubledick’s version of the matter, and learn whether the innkeeper himself admitted the impossibility of returning from his exile. Meanwhile he bound all those present not to disclose their knowledge of what had happened. He felt that the ignominious failure of the scheme would make them all a laughing-stock, which was especially to be avoided now that a score of miners had been imported into the village by John Trevanion. The men loyally kept the secret, even Petherick restraining his gossiping tongue, for he had a wholesome fear of Tonkin. Next morning, therefore, Tonkin sailed away in his own lugger, beating out against a stiff breeze. An hour or two later, Mr. Mildmay paid a visit in the cutter to the scene of the night’s events, seized the tubs still left in the smugglers’ den, broke up the windlass, and blocked up the tunnel leading to the well. Next afternoon Dick and Sam launched their boat, and sailed out to fish at some distance from the point of the Beal. Meeting them on the cliff, Penwarden advised them to keep their eye on the weather. The sky was threatening, and the boat, while safe enough on a calm sea, had not proved her capacity to ride out a storm. Sam appeared to be in low spirits. Usually talkative, he had scarcely spoken to Dick on the way from the house, and had indeed not been visible since breakfast time. "What’s the matter, Sam?" said Dick, as he sat at the tiller, noticing the boy’s gloomy face as he rowed to assist the sail. "Nawthin’," replied Sam curtly. "But there is. Your face is as long as a fiddle. Something must have upset you. What is it?" "Well, if I must tell, I will. My poor heart be broke." "That’s bad. What broke it?" "The Mistress." "My mother! What has she done?" "’Tis not what she does, but what she says. Oh! ’tis terrible hard for poor folks in this world." "I agree with you. We are all pretty poor at the Towers." "That’s why I feel it. Some poor folks can have noble raiment, others can’t, and drown me if I can see the why and wherefore." "Don’t talk rubbish." "’Tis not rubbish. Hevn’t Mistress got a fine new sealskin coat? Didn’t she wear it to church yesterday? Didn’t she look like a queen, and make all the women’s eyes open as wide as saucers? And there was Maidy Susan, poor young thing, lookin’ as plain as a sparrer beside her." "Well, you wouldn’t expect to see a servant-maid as fine as the Squire’s wife."