not for the conservation of body and goods, but of immortal souls. “If any devout lady shall so will, you may obtain from her liberality a shirt for this worthless tabernacle, and also a pair of hose; for I am unsavory to myself and to others, and of such luxuries none here has superfluity; for all live in holy poverty, except the fleas, who have that consolation in this world for which this unhappy nation, and those who labor among them, must wait till the world to come.* “Your loving brother, “N. S.” * See note at end of chapter. “Sir Richard must know of this before daybreak,” cried old Cary. “Eight hundred men landed! We must call out the Posse Comitatus, and sail with them bodily. I will go myself, old as I am. Spaniards in Ireland? not a dog of them must go home again.” “Not a dog of them,” answered Will; “but where is Mr. Winter and his squadron?” “Safe in Milford Haven; a messenger must be sent to him too.” “I'll go,” said Amyas: “but Mr. Cary is right. Sir Richard must know all first.” “And we must have those Jesuits.” “What? Mr. Evans and Mr. Morgans? God help us--they are at my uncle's! Consider the honor of our family!” “Judge for yourself, my dear boy,” said old Mr. Cary, gently: “would it not be rank treason to let these foxes escape, while we have this damning proof against them?” “I will go myself, then.” “Why not? You may keep all straight, and Will shall go with you. Call a groom, Will, and get your horse saddled, and my Yorkshire gray; he will make better play with this big fellow on his back, than the little pony astride of which Mr. Leigh came walking in (as I hear) this morning. As for Frank, the ladies will see to him well enough, and glad enough, too, to have so fine a bird in their cage for a week or two.” “And my mother?” “We'll send to her to-morrow by daybreak. Come, a stirrup cup to start with, hot and hot. Now, boots, cloaks, swords, a deep pull and a warm one, and away!” And the jolly old man bustled them out of the house and into their saddles, under the broad bright winter's moon. “You must make your pace, lads, or the moon will be down before you are over the moors.” And so away they went. Neither of them spoke for many a mile. Amyas, because his mind was fixed firmly on the one object of saving the honor of his house; and Will, because he was hesitating between Ireland and the wars, and Rose Salterne and love-making. At last he spoke suddenly. “I'll go, Amyas.” “Whither?” “To Ireland with you, old man. I have dragged my anchor at last.” “What anchor, my lad of parables?” “See, here am I, a tall and gallant ship.” “Modest even if not true.” “Inclination, like an anchor, holds me tight.” “To the mud.” “Nay, to a bed of roses--not without their thorns.” “Hillo! I have seen oysters grow on fruit-trees before now, but never an anchor in a rose-garden.” “Silence, or my allegory will go to noggin-staves.” “Against the rocks of my flinty discernment.”