[3] Published with the traditional melody in "Songs of the West, Traditional Songs and Ballads of the West of England," by S. Baring-Gould and H. Fleetwood Sheppard (Methuen, Bury Street, London, 1889). CHAPTER VIII. ST. MARK'S EVE. The ballad of the "Lady's Coach," sung to a weird air in an ancient mode, such as was becoming no more usual for composers to write in, and already beginning to sound strange and incomplete to the ear, at once changed the tenor of the thoughts of those in the tavern, and diverted their conversation away from politics into a new channel. The wind had risen, and was raging round the house, driving the rain in slashes against the casement; and puffing the smoke down the chimney into the room. "You came back from the moor along the Lyke-Way, did you?" asked the farmer of Anthony. "Yes; it is many miles the shortest, and there was plenty of light." "I wouldn't travel it at night for many crowns," said the yeoman. "Why not!" asked one of the miners. "What is there to fear on the moor? If there be spirits, they hurt no one." "I should like others to risk it before me," said the yeoman. "Anthony took good care not to ride it alone," muttered Fox, with a side glance at young Cleverdon. "You forced yourself on me," answered Anthony, sharply. "Of course you wanted to be quite alone--I understand," sneered Fox. "You can comprehend, I hope, that your company is no advantage to be greatly desired on the Lyke-Way or elsewhere," retorted Anthony, angrily. "It is possible enough that it was distasteful to others beside myself." "And your society was infinitely preferable. I make no question as to that," scoffed Fox. "Now, no quarrels here. We have banished politics. Must we banish every other topic that arises?" asked Solomon Gibbs. "What is this that makes you bicker now?" "Oh, nothing!" said Crymes. "Anthony Cleverdon and I were discussing the Lyke-Way, and whether either of us cared to go along it at night. I shrink from it, just as does Farmer Cudlip. Nor does Cleverdon seem more disposed to walk it." "I am not disposed to travel over it in rain and wind, in the midst of a thunder-storm. I would go along it any other night when moon and stars show, to allow of a man finding his road." "I'll tell you what," said the yeoman; "there's worst places than the Lyke-Way on such a night as this." "Where is that?" "Do you know what night it be?" "A very foul one."