Sir Robert de Shurland, Lord of Shurland and Minster, Baron of Sheppey _in comitatu_ Kent, was, as has been before hinted, a very great man. He was also a very little man; that is, he was relatively great, and relatively little,--or physically little, and metaphorically great,--like Sir Sidney Smith and the late Mr. Bonaparte. To the frame of a dwarf he united the soul of a giant, and the valour of a gamecock. Then, for so small a man, his strength was prodigious; his fist would fell an ox, and his kick--oh! his kick was tremendous, and, when he had his boots on, would,--to use an expression of his own, which he had picked up in the holy wars,--would "send a man from Jericho to June."--He was bull-necked and bandy-legged; his chest was broad and deep, his head large, and uncommonly thick, his eyes a little bloodshot, and his nose _retroussé_ with a remarkably red tip. Strictly speaking, the Baron could not be called handsome: but his _tout ensemble_ was singularly impressive: and when he called for his boots, everybody trembled and dreaded the worst. "Periwinkle," said the Baron, as he encased his better leg, "let the grave be twenty feet deep!" "Your lordship's command is law." "And, Periwinkle,"--Sir Robert stamped his left heel into its receptacle,--"and, Periwinkle, see that it be wide enough to hold not exceeding two!" "Ye--ye--yes, my lord." "And, Periwinkle,--tell Father Fothergill I would fain speak with his Reverence." "Ye--ye--yes, my lord." The Baron's beard was peaked; and his mustaches, stiff and stumpy, projected horizontally like those of a Tom Cat; he twirled the one, he stroked the other, he drew the buckle of his surcingle a thought tighter, and strode down the great staircase three steps at a stride. The vassals were assembled in the great hall of Shurland Castle; every cheek was pale, every tongue was mute: expectation and perplexity were visible on every brow. What would his lordship do?--Were the recusant anybody else, gyves to the heels and hemp to the throat were but too good for him:--but it was Father Fothergill who had said "I won't;" and though the Baron was a very great man, the Pope was a greater, and the Pope was Father Fothergill's great friend--some people said he was his uncle.