"He was a demon, who left me for a moment to torment others. I knew mischief would come of him as soon as he left me. He is always stirring up infernal broils; and would bring a host of enemies against me, if it were not for this charm. Look here," and taking from his side a perforated bone, he held it up, saying, "this is the rib of Margery Beddingfield, who was gibbeted on Rushmere Heath for the murder of her husband. When I show him this, he will soon be off. This is so strong a spell, he cannot touch me. But look! there he is! there he is!" and the startled hinds closed round their lord, and looked fearfully in the direction of the door, to see if the murderer was coming. "Aye, look at this, thou false fiend! Dost thou remember how thou didst stir up Margery, and Richard Ringe of Sternfield, her paramour, to murder John Beddingfield, the farmer, near Saxmundham? Thou couldst inflame their hot young blood to mischief; but what dost thou come here for? Off! off, I say! Look here! thou hadst better go to the officers of justice. Ha! ha! he is gone!" and the old man smiled again, as if he had defeated his foe, and was congratulating himself on the victory. These things were very unsatisfactory to the minds of these plain-thinking countrymen. They again and again put questions to him, but could get no other answers than incoherences about the foul fiend. "But what had Margaret Catchpole to do with it?" "Ask her yourself: the foul fiend always finds an easier prey in a woman." At this time Margaret came into the room; and ignorant as she herself was of Robin's efficient aid, she could not help asking him if he had seen the fight. "Did _you_ see it, young woman? I saw you long before I saw the fight." Margaret did not ask any more questions; for in another minute several asked her who had been fighting, what it was for, and what she had to do with it. She knew too well to speak would be to betray herself; and she was glad to find they were in ignorance of the real perpetrator of the deed. She was called into the parlour just then, and rejoiced to escape the inquisitive demands of her fellow-servants. "That's a clever girl," said old Robin, as she left the kitchen,--"that's a clever girl. Which of you boys would like her for a wife?" "Ask Will Simpson," said a sly fellow. "Ask poor Jack Barry," said another; "'tis my belief Jack got his blow from a rival in Margaret's love." "What fiend told you that, young man? 'Tis seldom any of 'em speak the truth? But, perhaps, you know who he is that rivals Jack?" "No, not I--not I. I know who he would be, if he was alive; and just the sort of fellow, too, to give Jack a nab. But he's dead and gone long ago, and maybe his bones are at the bottom of the sea, for he was killed on Felixstowe beach." "Who's he? who's he?" "Why, Will Laud, the smuggler. Don't you know him, Robin?" "Yes; but I never knew that he was dead."