Anthony was in his cell. He expected every moment to be called forth, and to hear his doom. He was perfectly calm, and thought only of Urith. He had the half-token about his neck, and he kissed it. Urith had given it to him: it was a pledge to him that she would ever be heartaching for him, living in the love and thought of him. Time passed without his noticing it.

Steps approached his cell, and he rose from his seat, ready to follow the soldier who would lead him forth to death. But, to his astonishment, in the door appeared Julian, with the lieutenant. Anthony's face darkened, and he stepped back. Why should this girl—this girl who had poisoned his life—come to torment and disturb him at the last hour?

Perhaps she read his thoughts in his face by the pale ray of light that entered from the window; and, with a voice trembling with emotion, she said, "Anthony, you are free!"

He did not stir, but looked questioningly at her. She also was pale, deadly pale, and her whole frame was quivering.

"It is true," said Friswell. "You are free to depart, you and the old man; both are discharged. There has been a mistake."

"I do not understand. There can have been no mistake," said Anthony.

"Come, quick; follow me," said Julian. Then, in a low tone, turning to the lieutenant, she said, "Suffer me one moment to speak to him alone."

"You may speak to him as much as you will," said the young man. "I only wish I were in his place."

"Anthony," said she, "say not another word to anyone here. I have delivered you."

"You, Julian! But how?"

"I have bought your life, with gold and——"

"And with what?"

"With—but I will tell you outside, not here. Come, your father awaits you."

"I thank you for what you have done for me, Julian. If I have wronged you in any way hitherto, I ask your forgiveness. Indeed, we have been in the wrong on all sides—none pure, none—save Bessie."

"None, save Bessie," repeated Julian.

"Come with me," she added, after a silence; and he obeyed.

Near the castle stands the weather-beaten church of St. Petrock, with its granite-pinnacled tower. Outside this church, on a tombstone, sat the old Squire. He first had been released, not at all comprehending how he had escaped death; not allowed to ask questions, huddled out of the castle, and sent forth into the street, bewildered and in doubt.

Now, with wide-opened eyes, he stared at Julian and his son as they came to him, as though he saw spirits from the dead.

"He is free, he is restored to you!" said Julian. The old man tried to rise, but sank back on the stone, extended his arms, and in a moment was locked in those of his son.

He could not understand what had taken place. He knew only that both he and Anthony were free, and in no further danger, but how that had come about, and how it was that Fox was in bonds, he could not make out. The reaction after the strain on his nerves set in. Great tears rolled out of his eyes, and he sobbed like a child on the breast of Anthony.

Then Julian told him how that his son had come and had surrendered himself to save his father. The old man listened, and as he listened, his pride, his hardness gave way. He put his hand into that of his son and pressed it. He could not speak, his heart was overfull.

But how had Anthony escaped? That he could not understand.

Then Julian told how that she had discovered that Fox had a hidden store of gold in the pigeon-cote at Kilworthy. She was convinced that this was the money that her father had lost, the money he was conveying to Monmouth at Taunton. Fox must have robbed the coach, robbed his own father, secreted the bags near the place where he had stolen them, and conveyed them by night, one by one, to the pigeon house at Kilworthy, where he had supposed they were safe, as the cote was deserted and no one ever entered it, least of all ascended a ladder to explore the pigeon-holes. She, by accident, had observed him, but had not allowed him to suppose that he had been seen.

When Anthony gave himself up, then Julian had entreated Fox to use this money to obtain the freedom of his friend and brother-in-law. As he had refused to do so, Julian had gone home, and taken the gold, brought it to Lydford, and with it had purchased Anthony's freedom.

As they spoke, the sexton passed them, rattling the keys of the church. He took no notice of them, nor they of him. They, indeed, were immersed in their own concerns.

"But," said Anthony, "you said something more to me. You had sacrificed something for me besides the gold. What was it——?"

"A life," answered Julian, in a low tone.

Hark! as she said the word, the bell of the church began to toll.

"There is some one dying," said the old man, rising from the gravestone. "Let us pray for him as he passes."

There was a noise of voices in the street, exclamations, heard between the deep deafening notes of the bell.

Presently the old man said. "What did you say, Julian! A life—whose life?"

She did not answer. He looked round. She was gone.

"And what did the Captain mean," he added, "when he said—he who has stepped into another man's shoes must wear his cravat?"

As he looked about, searching for Julian—he saw his question answered; understood why the bell tolled, why the whole of the population of the little place was in the street, talking, gesticulating, crying out, and looking at the topmost window of the Castle.

He who had stepped into Anthony's shoes, assumed his name, occupied his place, was wearing the cravat intended for his neck.

But where was Julian?

That was a question asked often, repeatedly, urgently, and it was a question that was never answered.

A shepherd boy declared that he had seen her going over the moor in the direction of Tavy Cleave. Search was made for her in every direction, but in vain.

When the writer was a boy, he was with a party at a picnic at Tavy Cleave, and was bidden descend the precipitous flank to the river to bring up water in an iron kettle. He went down—jumping, sliding, scrambling, and suddenly slid through a branch of whortleberry plants between some masses of rock that had fallen together, wedging each other up, and found himself in a pit under these rocks. To his surprise he there found a number of bones. His first impression was that a sheep had fallen from the rocks into this place, and had there died, but a little further examination convinced him that the remains were not those of a sheep at all. Among the remains, where were the little bones of the hand, was a ring. The ring was of gold and delicately wrought. It probably at one time contained hair, but this had disappeared, and the socket was empty, within the hoop was engraved "Ulalia Crymes, d. April 6, 1665." It was clearly a mourning ring. Now Ulalia Glanville was the last of that family, the heiress who married Ferdinando Crymes, and the day of her burial was April 10th, therefore, probably she died about April 6th, in that very year, 1665. And this was the mother of Julian. Can this have been the ring commemorative of her mother worn by Julian Crymes, and does this fact identify the bones as the remains of that unhappy girl? If so she must have either slipped or precipitated herself from the rocks over head, and fallen between these masses of stone, where her crushed body escaped the observation of all searchers, and of accidental passers-by.

As already said in an earlier chapter, the parish church of Peter Tavy has gone through that process which is facetiously termed "restoration," on the principle of the derivation of Lucus À non lucendo; restoration meaning, in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases the utter destruction of every element of interest and loveliness in an ancient church. Among the objects on which one of those West of England wreckers, the architects, exhibit their destructive energies are the tombstones.

Now, in Peter Tavy Church, previous to its restoration, there were—in the interest of my story—two tombstones, fortunately transcribed before the wrecker began his work.

Here is one, cut on a slate slab let into the floor:—

"To the Memory of
ANTHONY CLEVERDON, Gent.,
[Then a pair of clasped right hands]
and URITH, his Wife,
Daughter and Heiress of
RICHARD MALVINE, of Willsworthy, Gent."

Curiously enough, there was no date to this tomb.

It would appear that for a hundred years the descendants of Anthony and Urith remained at Willsworthy, and then the family became extinct. It would also appear that Hall passed completely out of the family of Cleverdon, the old Anthony Cleverdon, on his death, being entered in the register as "Anthony Cleverdon the Elder, once of Hall, but now of Willsworthy, Gentleman;" and the date of his burial was 1689, so that he just survived the accession of the Prince of Orange.

It cannot be doubted that the few remaining years of his life saw him an altered man, and that he had discovered that with the loss of Hall he had gained something, as Luke had said, far more precious—the love of his children, and the knowledge how precious it was.

In the floor of the chancel, below the Communion-rails, was another Cleverdon monument, but not one of a Cleverdon of Willsworthy, but of a rector of Peter Tavy. His Christian name was Luke. We may therefore conclude that Luke from being curate became incumbent of the church and parish he had served so faithfully. Beneath his name stood a second. The inscription ran thus:—"Also of Elizabeth, his true helpmeet, daughter of Anthony Cleverdon, formerly of Hall." There was no mention on it of the marriage with Fox. Below stood the text from Proverbs:—

"Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her. She will do him good, and not evil, all the days of her life."

THE END

THE GRESHAM PRESS,
UNWIN BROTHERS,
CHILWORTH AND LONDON.