“This to Evan Morgans, gentleman, at Mr. Leigh's house in Moorwinstow, Devonshire. News may be had by one who will go to the shore of Clovelly, any evening after the 25th of November, at dead low tide, and there watch for a boat, rowed by one with a red beard, and a Portugal by his speech. If he be asked, 'How many?' he will answer, 'Eight hundred and one.' Take his letters and read them. If the shore be watched, let him who comes show a light three times in a safe place under the cliff above the town; below is dangerous landing. Farewell, and expect great things!” “I will go,” said Eustace; “to-morrow is the 25th, and I know a sure and easy place. Your friend seems to know these shores well.” “Ah! what is it we do not know?” said Campian, with a mysterious smile. “And now?” “And now, to prove to you how I trust to you, you shall come with me, and see this--the lady of whom I spoke, and judge for yourself whether my fault is not a venial one.” “Ah, my son, have I not absolved you already? What have I to do with fair faces? Nevertheless, I will come, both to show you that I trust you, and it may be to help towards reclaiming a heretic, and saving a lost soul: who knows?” So the two set out together; and, as it was appointed, they had just got to the top of the hill between Chapel and Stow mill, when up the lane came none other than Mistress Rose Salterne herself, in all the glories of a new scarlet hood, from under which her large dark languid eyes gleamed soft lightnings through poor Eustace's heart and marrow. Up to them she tripped on delicate ankles and tiny feet, tall, lithe, and graceful, a true West-country lass; and as she passed them with a pretty blush and courtesy, even Campian looked back at the fair innocent creature, whose long dark curls, after the then country fashion, rolled down from beneath the hood below her waist, entangling the soul of Eustace Leigh within their glossy nets. “There!” whispered he, trembling from head to foot. “Can you excuse me now?” “I had excused you long ago;” said the kindhearted father. “Alas, that so much fair red and white should have been created only as a feast for worms!” “A feast for gods, you mean!” cried Eustace, on whose common sense the naive absurdity of the last speech struck keenly; and then, as if to escape the scolding which he deserved for his heathenry-- “Will you let me return for a moment? I will follow you: let me go!” Campian saw that it was of no use to say no, and nodded. Eustace darted from his side, and running across a field, met Rose full at the next turn of the road. She started, and gave a pretty little shriek. “Mr. Leigh! I thought you had gone forward.” “I came back to speak to you, Rose--Mistress Salterne, I mean.” “To me?” “To you I must speak, tell you all, or die!” And he pressed up close to her. She shrank back, somewhat frightened.