When this was done, he stood again motionless, his fevered brow bared to the breezes as though to him that spot were hallowed. Then, crossing the stile, he entered the meadow, passing and repassing the narrow lane as though for the purpose of discovering the exact position an observer would be compelled to take up in order to watch a person standing at the point he had marked. At last he returned, standing again with his back to the stile, his hat raised in reverence, gazing fixedly upon those dead and decaying leaves. "Yes," he murmured, "I was mad--mad! The devil tempted me, and I fell. Would to God that I could make amends! But I cannot--I dare not. No, I must suffer!" CHAPTER FOURTEEN. WHICH DEMANDS EXPLANATION. Chisholm dined that night in the upstairs room of that old-fashioned hostelry, the Angel, at Godalming, in company with the brethren of the banner. He sat at the right of the estimable, fat-handed butcher who presided, and was informed by him that as the gigantic roast sirloin that was served was his "own killing," he could recommend it. They ate, drank, and made merry, these men banded together by their sacred rites, until the heat grew so intense that the windows were opened, with the result that decorous High Street echoed to the volleys of their hearty laughter. As drink was included in the cost of the repast, those diners with the more rapacious appetites--who, indeed, made no secret that they had been existing in a state of semi-starvation all day in order to eat at night--drank indiscriminately of the lemonade, beer, wine and whiskey placed upon the table. Indeed, as is usual at such feasts, they ate and drank all within reach of their hands. But these bearded working-men and small tradesmen were merry and well-meaning with it all. After "The King" had been honoured, they toasted with boisterous enthusiasm "Our Honourable Member," and joined in the usual chorus of poetical praise, "For he's a jolly good fellow." Dudley sat bowing and smiling, yet at heart sick of the whole performance. He dreaded the pipes and cigars that would in a few moments appear. Shag and clays always turned him ill. He was no great smoker himself, and had never been able to withstand the smell of a strong cigar. His quick eyes observed a man who was beginning in an affectionate manner to fondle a well-coloured short clay. He bent at once to the chairman, saying that he would now deliver his speech. "Silence, please, gentlemen!" shouted the rotund butcher, rapping the table with his wooden mallet after their guest's health had been drunk. "Silence for our Honourable Member! Silence--_please_!"