“You shall have your will, mistress,” she said; “here, Bronson, go out and get a dozen--nay, twenty stout rods and distribute them.” The servant went to execute her order, while Betty remained standing, a puzzled expression on her face. In a few moments the company, to the number of sixteen or seventeen, were armed with stout hickory staffs, and Lady Crabtree directed that these men should form in two lines from the door, leaving a small aisle in the middle. This was done, while all the members of the household were on their feet, women and girls and gray-headed men all looking on curiously. The light of day, now much brighter, shone in the room, and many of the tapers were extinguished. When her orders were carried out, Lady Crabtree rose and stood by the table, pointing her finger at the culprit. “Hark ye, villain,” she said harshly, “this young lady has interceded for you, and though I am breaking law thereby, yet would I pleasure her. I give you this chance for your life. Yonder is the door; make it, but take your fortune with a beating and the magistrate upon the other side. You, my servants, belabor him well as he runs through the passage; spare not the rogue, I charge ye. Now, Sir Steward, loose him and let him go.” The cords were cut from the man’s arms and the two men stepped back to give him room. For a moment he stood as if bewildered, and then, turning, he started at a run down the long hall. As he reached the middle of the place, he came in contact with the staffs of the men servants, who obeyed the mistress’s behests with good will. The beggar dodged wildly, but only to receive two blows for one that he evaded. They fell on every side, and he was driven in a zigzag course by the force of the encounter. The dull sound of the blows which hit the mark was mingled with shrill laughter and shouts of approval, for it was an entertainment to the household. Lady Crabtree stood up and clapped her hands. “Well hit there, Jacob!” she cried; “strike again, Andrew, but spare his skull; cheat not the hangman of an honest job.” There was a wild scuffle at the door, and then the vagrant, with a strong blow from his fist, sent a serving-man sprawling upon his back and effected his escape amid a great outcry. “Well done, marvellously well done!” laughed Lady Crabtree; “he will beg here no more. Sit down, Betty; you have won, and may finish your breakfast.” But Betty remained standing, her face pale and her dark eyes full of fire. “Madam,” she said, “I have no appetite; I could not eat the herring that you saved.” “What ails you, wench?” the old woman asked grimly; “your stomach is too dainty. Know you not that the king would hang all such?” “I care not,” Mistress Carew cried; “that scene was one to turn a stouter heart than mine. The man was a knave, but I have no love of seeing misery made a sport of.”