MICHAELMAS had come and gone, and it was past the middle of October when a messenger came down post-haste from London. It was after supper, and there was revelry among the retainers and visitors at Mohun’s Ottery. In the great hall, however, there were but few; Sir William had only his favored guest, Master Raleigh, and besides these two were Lady Carew, her daughter, Mistress Cicely, and her niece. There were three sons, but none were home. Peter, who ran away to France, was even then with Sir John Wallop; that same Sir Peter who made the barns of Crediton smoke for the Lord Protector in after years. That evening the little company sat about the fire, the women working with their needles in a group at the left, and at the right sat Raleigh watching his host brew a posset. It was a matter of grave import to Carew, and he let no other hand mix the rare composition, but stood over it; a noble figure, a man in middle life, having a fine head and grizzled hair, with the keen, bright eye and strong jaw of a resourceful and stubborn nature. His rich dress of Flemish velvet, dark as the dregs of wine, his great lace ruff and heavy chain of gold, set off his person and made it the more striking in contrast to the darker, plainer garb of Raleigh. The guest watched his friend stir the beverage and smiled at his ardor. “What secret lurks in it,” he said, “that you let no man brew it for you, Carew? I should scarce be willing to take the pains that you have this night, though I do heartily acknowledge you the king of posset makers.” “If it be not worth the pains, it is not worth the drinking,” replied Sir William; “’tis like a fine child, it may not come into the world without some travail and a good leech. See you, friend Raleigh, there is a secret in stirring it aright and putting in the parts in due season. If the cream and almonds be not wisely boiled with the amber and musk, and if you heat not the sack before you put in the eggs, then is there confusion, worse than these late troubles have brought upon this realm, and caused much in the same way, too, by a domestic disagreement.” Master Raleigh shook his head gravely at this, his mind slipping away from the posset as his next words betrayed. “It will be happy for the realm if it prove but a domestic quarrel,” he said thoughtfully, “since the Act of the Succession there can be no doubt that there is much foreign meddling, and, I fear me, plots against the king’s majesty, made over seas, are foster-mothered here at Bugden; albeit, I do not greatly blame that noble lady that she will not yield. To her it must seem a sore and bewildering visitation of evil.” “God help her!” cried Lady Carew; “she was a good wife to the king, and deserveth better at his hands.”