Early in the morning of New Year's Day Trevarthen suggested riding into Helleston to purchase fresh meat, their stock of which had run low with the Christmas feasting. He had made many such expeditions--always, however, with an escort of four or five; for although the Justices held their hands, and made no attempt to arrest the dispersed conspirators in their own homes but suffered them there to go about their private occupations, the purchase of victuals for the besieged house was another matter, and rumour had more than once come to Steens that the Helleston constables meant to challenge it by force. So to-day, with Roger's leave, Trevarthen withdrew five of the garrison and rode off, leaving but four men on guard--Roger himself, Malachi, a labourer named Pascoe, and one Hickory Rodda--a schoolmaster from Wendron, whose elder brother, Nathaniel, a small farmer from the same parish, went with the expedition. The short day passed quietly enough, if tediously. Roger spent the morning in melting down lead for bullets and running it into moulds. Long strips from the roof and even some of the casement lattices had gone to provide his arsenal against the next assault; and at the worst he fully meant to turn to his father's stacks of silver coin in the locked cellar. That afternoon he shut himself up with his Bible, and read until the print hurt his eyes. Then in the waning light he took his hat and started for a stroll around the back defences and out-buildings. His way led through the kitchen, where Jane, the cook--the only woman left at Steens--was peeling potatoes for the night's supper; and there beside the open hearth sat Hickory Rodda writing by the glow of it, huddled on a stool with a sheet of paper on his knee. At Roger's entrance the young man--he was scarce twenty, long-legged, overgrown, and in bearing somewhat furtive--slipped a hand over the writing and affected to stare into the fire. "Hey? What's that you're doing?" "Nun--nothing, Mr. Stephen; nothing particular--that is, I was writing a letter." "Hand it over." Hickory rose, upsetting his stool, and began to back away. "'Tis a private letter I was writing to a friend." Roger gripped him by the collar, plucked the paper from him, and took it to the door for better light. As he read the dark blood surged up in his neck and face. It was addressed to Lady Piers--a foul letter, full of obscene abuse and threats. Roger cast back one look at its author, and from the doorway shouted into the yard-- "Malachi! Pascoe!" His voice was terrible. The two men heard it at their posts, and came running. "Fetch a wain-rope!" He caught Hickory by the collar again, and forced his face up to the window against the red rays of the level sun. "Look on that, you dirt! And look your last on it! Nay, you shall see it once more, as you swing yonder."