West Country Song.

The next morning Amyas Leigh was not to be found. Not that he had gone
out to drown himself in despair, or even to bemoan himself "down by the
Torridge side." He had simply ridden off, Frank found, to Sir Richard
Grenville at Stow: his mother at once divined the truth, that he was
gone to try for a post in the Irish army, and sent off Frank after him
to bring him home again, and make him at least reconsider himself.

So Frank took horse and rode thereon ten miles or more: and then, as
there were no inns on the road in those days, or indeed in these, and
he had some ten miles more of hilly road before him, he turned down
the hill towards Clovelly Court, to obtain, after the hospitable humane
fashion of those days, good entertainment for man and horse from Mr.
Cary the squire.

And when he walked self-invited, like the loud-shouting Menelaus, into
the long dark wainscoted hall of the court, the first object he beheld
was the mighty form of Amyas, who, seated at the long table, was
alternately burying his face in a pasty, and the pasty in his face, his
sorrows having, as it seemed, only sharpened his appetite, while young
Will Cary, kneeling on the opposite bench, with his elbows on the table,
was in that graceful attitude laying down the law fiercely to him in a
low voice.

"Hillo! lad," cried Amyas; "come hither and deliver me out of the hands
of this fire-eater, who I verily believe will kill me, if I do not let
him kill some one else."

"Ah! Mr. Frank," said Will Cary, who, like all other young gentlemen of
these parts, held Frank in high honor, and considered him a very oracle
and cynosure of fashion and chivalry, "welcome here: I was just longing
for you, too; I wanted your advice on half-a-dozen matters. Sit down,
and eat. There is the ale."

"None so early, thank you."

"Ah no!" said Amyas, burying his head in the tankard, and then mimicking
Frank, "avoid strong ale o' mornings. It heats the blood, thickens
the animal spirits, and obfuscates the cerebrum with frenetical and
lymphatic idols, which cloud the quintessential light of the pure
reason. Eh? young Plato, young Daniel, come hither to judgment! And yet,
though I cannot see through the bottom of the tankard already, I can see
plain enough still to see this, that Will shall not fight."

"Shall I not, eh? who says that? Mr. Frank, I appeal to you, now; only
hear."

"We are in the judgment-seat," said Frank, settling to