Martin Fairley had come to the Abbey one winter's night soon after Barbara Lanison had been brought there. He had come out of the woods, struggling against a hurricane of wind across one of the bridges, his fiddle cuddled in his arms for protection. He had begged for food and shelter, and then, warm and satisfied, he had played to the company gathered round the Abbey fire, had told them strange tales, and, with a light laugh, had declared that he was the second child to come to the good Sir John Lanison for care and protection, first the little niece, now the poor fool. Someone told Sir John that there was luck in keeping such a fool about the place, and whether it was that he believed it, or really felt pity for the homeless wanderer, Martin Fairley had been allowed to remain at the Abbey ever since, a willing slave to Barbara Lanison, an inconsequent person who must not be interfered with. Perhaps he was twenty years old when he came, strong and lithe of limb then, and to-day he was hardly changed, older-looking, of course, but still lithe in his movements. Mentally, his development had been curious. His powers had both increased and decreased. There were times when he was silent, depressed, when his mind was a complete blank, and whatever words he might utter were totally without meaning; but there were other times when his eyes were alight with intelligence, when his wit was as keen as a well-tempered blade, and his whole appearance one of resolute energy and competent action. He was keen to-night as he told the story of Monmouth's landing. "Lyme went mad at his coming," he said. "His address was read from the market cross, and the air rang again with shouts of 'Monmouth! and the Protestant faith!' As captain-general of that faith has he come, and the people flock to his blue standard and scatter flowers in his path. The Whig aristocracy will rise to a man, it is said, and London fly to arms. The King and his Parliament tremble and turn pale, and the train-bands of Devon are only awaiting the opportunity to join the Duke. All the West is in arms." "How did you hear the news?" asked Sir John. "It flies in all directions; you have only to listen." "We have heard nothing," said Rosmore contemptuously. "Ah, but these walls are thick," said Martin, "and wine makes people dull of hearing, while the company of fair ladies breeds disinclination to hear. Perhaps, too, you were making a noise over your play." "I am inclined to think it is all a tale," said Branksome. "Before this we have known you to dream prodigiously, Martin." "True. I dreamed last night as I lay on a bed of hay in a loft, with my fiddle for company, that all the gentleman at the Abbey had flown to fight for Monmouth." "A stupid dream," said a man who was a Whig, and whose mind was full of doubt as to what his course of action must be should Monmouth's landing be a fact.