"Ay; that poor wretch at Basingstoke is well quit of his troubles. A sad case, Mr. Berkeley; but too common, I fear. ’Twas a broken soldier; they had clapt him in the stocks as a vagrant; never in my life saw I a more piteous object. He was outside the inn, and hailed me as we alighted to dine and change horses. Had fought at Blenheim, he told me, captain in a Hanoverian regiment, Aglionby by name, and lately returned from the Indies. We had him released; but the poor fellow was even worse than he seemed; for he died of a sudden before we left the inn. He was on his way to this very village to see a cousin, I bethink me he said. ’Tis thus we serve the men who have fought our battles." There was a note of bitterness in Marlborough’s voice. "Your pity, I fear, was ill-deserved, my lord," said the Squire. "I know the man. He fought at Blenheim, indeed, but on the other side, and for treasonable practices was sent some six years ago on a long term to the Plantations. He must have escaped." "Poor wretch! He had a miserable end. In spite of what you tell me, Mr. Berkeley, I pity him. Such is the fate of too many loyal soldiers also, the innocent victims of war. You who live a quiet country life have certainly chosen the better part. The prizes of court and camp are in the end but Dead-Sea fruit. ’Put not your trust in princes’: ’tis the truest of warnings, as we old stagers—eh, my lord?—have reason to know." A cheerful fire, good fare, and a fine vintage of much-travelled Madeira had completed the good impression made by the host. The elder men began to talk freely, with none of the constraint which the presence of a younger man and a stranger might in other circumstances have produced. Harry was amused to find that the passage of years had altered him beyond recognition, and wondered when a suitable opportunity would occur of recalling himself to the recollection of his guests. All at once Lord Godolphin said: "’Tis strange, Mr. Berkeley, that I am for the second time detained in this village by an accident. My host on that occasion was, I think, a Mr. Fanshawe. Is he still living? It was ten years ago." "Sir Godfrey Fanshawe is dead, my lord; his son now owns the Grange."