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."

"Ay, no doubt about that! after a fair day. But this is St. Mark's Eve, and I'll tell you what befel my grandfather on this night some years agone. 'Twas in Peter Tavy, too—it came about he'd been to the buryin' of his uncle's mother's sister's aunt, and, as he said hisself, never enjoyed hisself more at a buryin'. There was plenty o' saffron cake and cyder, and some bottles of real old Jamaica rum, mellow—Lor' bless you—soft and mellow as a cat's paw. He lived, did my grandfather, at Horndon, and it were a night much such as this. My grandfer had rather a deal stayed wi' the corpse, but he was a mighty strict and scrupulous old man, and he knowed that his wife—my grandmother as was—would expect him home about—well, I can't say for sartain, but, anyhow, some hours afore daybreak. Us poor fellers in this world o' misery and trial, can't a'ways have what we desires, so my grandfer had to sacrifice hisself on the alter of dooty, and not to bide with the corpse and the Jamaica rum, not to mention the saffron cake. 'Tes surprising, gentlemen," said Farmer Cudlip, looking round at Cleverdon, Crymes, and Solomon Gibbs, "'tes surprising now, when you come to reckon up, how soon one comes to the end o' eating cake, and yet, in Jamaica rum, and punch—I thanky' kindly, Mr. Gibbs, to fill me the glass. Thanky', sir!—As I was saying, in drink one's capacity is, I should say, boundless as the rolling ocean. Ain't it, now, Mr. Gibbs?"

"Ah! Solomon the Wise never said a truer word," answered Solomon the Foolish.

"'Tes curious, when you come to consider, now," said the farmer; "for meat and drink both goes the same way and into the same receptacle; yet how soon one is grounded on cake, but can float, and float—I thank you Mr. Gibbs, my glass is empty—float forever in liquor."

"We should like to hear what your grandfather did," said Cleverdon, laughing.

"What he did? Why, he sot down," said Cudlip. "After leaving the house of tears and bereavement, he was going home, and was very tired, his legs began to give way under him. And as he came along by the wall o' Peter Tavy Church, sez he to hisself, 'Why, dash me if it bain't St. Mark's Eve, and many a time have I heard tell that they as wait on that eve in the church porch is sure to see go by in at the door all they that is sure to die in the rest o' the year.' Well, gentlemen, my grandfer, he knewed he was a bit late, and thought his wife—my grandmother—wouldn't take it over kindly, so he thinks if he could bring her a bit of rare news, she'd mebbe forgive him. And, gentlemen, what more rare news could he bring than a tale of who was doomed to die within the year? So he went in at the churchyard-gate, and straight—that is to say, as straight as his legs, which weren't quite equal, could take him—to the porch, and there, on the side away from the wind, he sot hisself down."

"I wouldn't have done it," said one of the miners, nudging his fellow; "would thou, Tummas?"

"Not I," responded his comrade. "If it had been the Lyke-Way, that's different. I'd walk that any night. But to go under a roof, in the churchyard—it were tempting o' Providence."

"Go on with your story," said Solomon Gibbs. "Those that interrupt lose a turn of filling from the bowl."

"Well, then," continued Cudlip, "my grandfather was seated for some time in the porch, and uncommon dark it was, for there are a plenty of trees in the churchyard, and the night was dirty, and the sky covered with clouds. How long he sat there I cannot tell, but long enough to get uneasy; not that he was afraid, bless your souls, of what he might see, but uneasy at being there so long and seeing nothing, so that he must go home to my grandmother without a word o' explanation or information that might pacify her, should she be inclined to be troublesome. Just as he was about to get up, in a mighty bad temper, and to go home, cursing the fools who had got up the tale of St. Mark's Eve, why, looking along the avenue in the yard, what should he see but some curious long, white things, like monstrous worms, crawling and tumbling, and making for the church porch. You will understand, gentlemen, that my grandfather thought he would do better to wait where he was, partly, because he did not wish to pass these worm-like creatures, but, chiefly, that he might have something to report to his missus, to make her placable and agreeable."

"But what where they?" asked Anthony Cleverdon.

"I'll tell you, Master Anthony. They was human arms, from the shoulder, walking of themselves; first they laid along from shoulder to elbow, then the hand from elbow forward lifted itself and looked about, and then came down flat on the palm, and lifted all the hinder part from the elbow-joint till it stood upright, and then turned a somersault, and so on again, two steps, as it were, and then a somersault; a coorious sort of proceeding, I take it."

"Very," said Crymes, with a sneer.

"There was about nine of 'em coming along, some fast as if racing each other, some slow, but creeping on, and overtaking the others that was going too fast, and fell over on the elbow-joint, when up went hand and shoulder kicking in the air like a beetle on his back. My grandfather felt that now sartainly he'd have news to tell his old woman. Presently a lot of the arms was about the step to the church porch, shy-like, not knowing whether to come in or no—some standing up on the shoulder and poking the hands in, some curlin' of themselves up on the step, as a-going to sleep, and some staggering about anyways. At last one of the boldest of them made a jump, and came down on my grandfather's knee, and sat there, with the shoulder part on his knee, like as a limpet fastens on a rock, or the end of a barnacle on a log of wood, and there it sat and curled itself about, and turned the hand just as it saw out of the nails—which was very white, and served as eyes. It was curious, my grandfather said, to see the fingers curling one over the other, just as a fly preens its wings. My granfer' couldn't make it out at first, till at last he saw it was pulling and picking at a gold ring on the last finger but one. It was a very broad ring—and directly my granfer' knowed it, and said, 'Why, blazes!' said he, 'that's Mistress Cake's wedding ring!' And no sooner had he said that, than the arm jumped off his knee and went on to the church door, and he saw it no more. Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, that Mistress Cake, of Wringworthy, died a month later of the falling sickness. But he had not a moment for consideration, as in came another arm, that stood at his foot bowing to him with the hand, and then patting him on the shin. This arm didn't like to seem to make so bold as to come up and sit on his knee, so my granfer stooped and looked at it. It stood up on the shoulder, and it had very strong muscles; but rather stiff, they seemed, wi' age, for they cracked like when the arm bent itself about, which it did in a slow and clumsy fashion. 'Twas a brown arm, too, and not white, like Madam Cake's; and the hand was big, and broad, and hairy, and it turned itself over and showed the palm, and then it held up one finger after another, which was all covered with warts. Then my granfer said, 'Lor' bless and deliver! but this be the hand of Ploughman Gale!' And, sure enough, I reckon it was. It seemed quite satisfied, and folded itself up, and made a spring like a cricket—went out of sight to the church door."

"I should like to know how your grandfather saw all this," said Anthony Cleverdon, "if it was, as you say, a dark night, and it was in the church porch?"

"No interfering!" exclaimed Mr. Gibbs. "You've forfeited. Here's your glass, Master Cudlip. Go on."

"There's not much more to be said," continued the yeoman. "One or two more arms came on, and granfer said there was a sight o' difference in their ways: some was pushing like, and forward; and others rayther hung back, and seemed to consider small bones of themselves. Now it was a fact that all those he saw and named belonged to folks as died within the year, and in the very order in which they came on and presented themselves before him. What puzzled him most to name was two baby-arms—purty little things they was—and he had to count over all the young children in the parish before he could tell which they was. At last, up came a long, lean, old, dry arm, tossing its hand in a short, quick, touchy fashion, and went up on grandfer's knee without so much as a 'By your leave.' And there it sat, and poked its hand about, wi'all the fingers joined together like a pointed serpent's head. It moved in a queer, irritable, jerky manner, that was familiar, somehow, to my grandfather. After a bit he put his head down to look at the elbow, where he fancied he saw a mole, when—crack! the hand hit him on his cheek such a blow that he tumbled over, and lay sprawling on the pavement; and he knew, by the feel of the hand as it caught him, that it was—my grandmother's. When he had picked himself up, he saw nothing more, so he went home. You may be very sure of those two things, gentlemen—[Thank you, Mr. Gibbs. I'll trouble you to fill my glass. Talking has made me terrible dry]—he never told his missus that Madam Cake's arm had sat on his knee, nor that he had seen and recognized her own arm and hand."

"I wouldn't go on this night to the church porch, not for a king's crown," said one of the miners. "Did not your grandfather suffer for his visit?"

"Well," answered the yeoman, "I reckon he did ever after feel a sort o' cramp in his knees—particularly in wet weather, where the arms had sat—but what was that to the relief? My grandmother died that same year."

"I wouldn't go there for any relief you might name," said the miner again, who was greatly impressed by the story. "I've heard the pixies hammering down in the mines, but I think naught of them. As for the Lyke-Way, what goes over that is but shadows."

"Some folks are afraid of shadows," said Fox, "and don't think themselves safe unless they have at least a woman with them for protection."

"You are again levelling at me!" exclaimed Anthony Cleverdon. "I have no fear either of shadows or substances. If you choose to come out and try with me, you will see that I am not afraid of your arm, and that I can chastise your tongue."

"Oh! my arm!" laughed Crymes. "I never supposed for a moment you dreaded that. But it is the arms without bodies, moving like worms in the churchyard at Peter Tavy, on this St. Mark's Eve, you are more likely to dread."

"I am not afraid of them," retorted Cleverdon.

"So you say; but I do not think you seem inclined to show you are not."

"Do you dare me to it?"

"I don't care whether you go or not. If you do, who is to stand surety for you that you go where I say—to the churchyard of Peter Tavy?"

"One of you can come and see."

"There!" laughed Fox, "crying off already! Afraid to go alone, and appealing for company."

"By heaven, this is too bad!" cried Anthony, and started to his feet.

"Don't go," shouted Mr. Solomon Gibbs. "It's folly, and break up of good company."

"There's good company with Fox Crymes girding at me at every minute. But, by heaven, I will not be jeered at as a coward. Fox has dared me to go to Peter Tavy churchyard, and go I will—alone, moreover."

"No such thing," said the host; "it is too bad a night. Stay here and help finish this brew; we'll have another bowl, if Mr. Solomon approves—and Mr. Cudlip."

"I will go," said Anthony, thoroughly roused, and rendered doubly excitable by the punch he had been drinking.

"You have done wrong to spur him," said Gibbs, addressing Crymes.

"Faith! I am a sceptic," said Fox. "I disbelieve altogether in the walking arms, and I shall be glad to learn from a credible witness whether the same be a mere fiction and fancy, or have any truth in it. Master Cudlip's grandfather lived a long time ago."

"I do not believe in it either," said Cleverdon; "but although I did I would not now be deterred. Fox casts his gibes at me, and I will show him that I have metal enough to make such a trifling venture as this."

He threw on his coat, grasped his long walking-stick, and went out into the storm. A furious gale was sweeping about the little hamlet of Cudlip town, where stood the tavern. It was not possible to determine from which quarter the wind came, it so eddied about the inn and the open space before it. Anthony stood against the wall outside for a moment or two till his eyes accustomed themselves somewhat to the dark. Every few moments the glare of lightning in the sky illumined the rocky ridges of White Tor and Smeardun, under which Cudlip town lay, and the twisted thorns and oaks among blocks of granite that strewed the slopes before the three or four old farmhouses that were clustered about the inn.

Then Anthony, having satisfied himself as to his direction, set down his head against the wind, and strode forward, with his staff feeling the way. On his right, below in this valley, roared the Tavy, but the song of the water was mixed up with that of the wind so inextricably that Anthony, had he tried it, could not have distinguished the roar of one from that of the other. The lane was between stone walls and hedges of half stone and half earth, in summer adorned with magnificent foxgloves. For a while the rain slackened, and where the walls were high Anthony had some shelter against the wind. Peter Tavy Church lay outside the village, and he would reach it without passing another house.

The principal fury of the storm seemed to be concentrated over White Tor, a lofty peak of trap rock fortified in prehistoric times, and with beacons and cairns of angular fragments piled up within the enclosure. In one place a huge fang of black rock stood upright, and was split by lightning, with a block of basalt fallen into the cleft, where it swung among the rocks. Over the cairns and embankments the thunder-cloud flamed white, and threw out dazzling fire-bolts. Anthony stood one moment, looking up at the Tor; it was as though the spirits of the air were playing at tossball there with thunderbolts. Then he again pushed forward. The wind, the cold—after the warmth of the tavern and the spirits he had drank—confused his brain, and though he was not intoxicated, yet he was not judge of his actions. At the next explosion of the electric fluid he saw before him the granite tower of the church, and the trees in the churchyard bare of leaves.

Those in the tavern became grave and silent for a moment after Anthony left.

"It is a folly," said one of the miners; "it is tempting heaven."

"I don't care whether he sees aught or not," said Cudlip; "my grandfather's story is true. It don't follow because Anthony Cleverdon comes back having seen nothing that my grandfather told an untruth. Who can tell? perhaps nobody in the parish will die this year. If there is to be no burials, then no arms will be walking."

"I hope he's not gone the wrong road and tumbled into the river," said Solomon Gibbs.

"I'll tell you what he will do," said Fox. "He will let us sit expecting his return all night, and he will quietly take himself off to Hall, and laugh at us for our folly to-morrow."

"Not he," said the innkeeper; "that's not the way with Master Cleverdon. You might have done that, and we should not ha' been surprised."

"I would have done it, most assuredly. If Tony does not, then he is more of a fool than I took him. He loves a bit of brag as much as another, and with brag he went forth."

"There is no brag in him," said Taverner, the ballad-singer. "Every one knows what Anthony Cleverdon is; if he says he will do a thing, he will do it. If we wait long enough, he will return from the churchyard."

"Or say he has been there."

"If he says it, we will believe him—all but you, Mr. Crymes, who believe in nobody and nothing."

"Now, we have had threats of quarrel already more than once; I must stop this," said Solomon Gibbs. "Storm outside is sufficient. Let us have calm within over the sea of punch."

"Oh!" said Fox, contemptuously, "I don't quarrel with old Taverner; no man draws save against his equal."

"Punch! more punch!" shouted Gibbs. "Landlord, we are come to the gravel. And, Taverner! give us a song, but not one so dismal as 'My Lady's Coach.' That set us about speaking of St. Mark's Eve, and sent Cleverdon on this crazy adventure."

"What shall I sing?" asked the songman, but he did not wait for an answer. He stood up and began:—

The door was burst open, and Anthony entered, with the water pouring off him. He was blinded with the rain that had beat in his face, as he came toward Cudlip's town. In his arms he bore something like a log.

"There!" said he, and cast this object on the table, where it struck and shattered the porcelain punchbowl, sending its last contents over the table and the floor.

"There!" shouted Anthony, "will you now believe I have been in the churchyard?"

"By the Lord!" shouted Solomon Gibbs, "this is past a joke. This is a mortal insult."

That which Anthony had cast on the table was one of the oak posts which marked the head of a grave, square, with a sort of nick and knob on the top. Such a post as was put up by those who could not afford granite tombstones.

"It is an insult! It is an outrage!" roared Gibbs, "look there!" He pointed to the inscription on the post—it ran thus:—

Richard Malvine,
of Willsworthy, Gent.