“Nay, there is no need for you to give me any promise,” he said. “I will have confidence in your fidelity without any promise.” “You will have to reckon with me first, you robber!” [Illustration: 0008] They both started at the sound of the voice. It came from a scowling man who, unperceived by them, had come through a small plantation of poplars on the slope at one side of the road, and now leaped from the bank, high though it was, and stood confronting them. The girl faced him. “What do you here, John Bennet?” she cried. “Have you been playing the spy as usual?” “You are one of them that needs to be watched, my girl,” said he. “You know that I speak the truth and that is why you feel it the more bitterly. But rest sure that I shall watch you and watch you and watch you while I have eyes in my head.” He was a lank man, who wore his own red hair tied in a queue. He had eyes that certainly would make anyone feel that the threat which he had uttered to the girl was one that he was well qualified to carry out; they were small and fierce--the eyes of a fox when its vigilance is overstrained. He kept these eyes fixed upon her for some moments, and then turned them with the quickness of a flash of light upon Wesley. “I heard what she said and I heard what you said, my gentleman,” said he. “You will have faith in her fidelity--the fidelity of Nelly Polwhele. I know not who you are that wears a parson's bands; but parson or no parson I make bold to tell you that you are a fool--the biggest fool on earth if you have faith in any promise made by that young woman.” “Sir,” said Wesley, “you called me a thief just now. My knowledge of the falsehood of that accusation enables me to disregard any slander that you may utter against this innocent girl.” “I called you a thief once and I shall call you so a second time,” cried the man. “You have stolen the love of this girl from me--nay, 'tis no use for you to raise your hand like that. I know you are ready to swear that you said nothing except what a good pastor would say to one of his flock--swear it, swear it and perjure yourself, as usual--all of your cloth do it when the Bishop lays his hands upon their wigs, and they swear to devote their lives to the souls of their parishes and then hasten to their rectories to get on their hunting boots--their hunting boots that are never off their legs save when they are playing bowls or kneeling--kneeling--ay, in the cock-pit.” “Silence, sir!” cried Wesley. “Pass on your way and allow us to proceed on ours.” “I have told your reverence some home truths; and as for yonder girl, who has doubtless tricked you as she did me----” “Silence, sir, this instant! You were coward enough to insult a man who you knew could not chastise you, and now you would slander a girl! There is your way, sir; ours is in the other direction.”