stead the next year, when
we were accused of harbouring and comforting guilty rebels.

Now the reason why the Doones did not attack us was that they were
preparing to meet another and more powerful assault upon their fortress;
being assured that their repulse of King's troops could not be looked
over when brought before the authorities. And no doubt they were right;
for although the conflicts in the Government during that summer and
autumn had delayed the matter yet positive orders had been issued that
these outlaws and malefactors should at any price be brought to justice;
when the sudden death of King Charles the Second threw all things into
confusion, and all minds into a panic.

We heard of it first in church, on Sunday, the eighth day of February,
1684-5, from a cousin of John Fry, who had ridden over on purpose from
Porlock. He came in just before the anthem, splashed and heated from his
ride, so that every one turned and looked at him. He wanted to create a
stir (knowing how much would be made of him), and he took the best way
to do it. For he let the anthem go by very quietly--or rather I should
say very pleasingly, for our choir was exceeding proud of itself, and
I sang bass twice as loud as a bull, to beat the clerk with the
clarionet--and then just as Parson Bowden, with a look of pride at his
minstrels, was kneeling down to begin the prayer for the King's Most
Excellent Majesty (for he never read the litany, except upon Easter
Sunday), up jumps young Sam Fry, and shouts,--

"I forbid that there prai-er."

"What!" cried the parson, rising slowly, and looking for some one to
shut the door: "have we a rebel in the congregation?" For the parson was
growing short-sighted now, and knew not Sam Fry at that distance.

"No," replied Sam, not a whit abashed by the staring of all the parish;
"no rebel, parson; but a man who mislaiketh popery and murder. That
there prai-er be a prai-er for the dead."

"Nay," cried the parson, now recognising and knowing him to be our
John's first cousin, "you do not mean to say, Sam, that His Gracious
Majesty is dead!"

"Dead as a sto-un: poisoned by they Papishers." And Sam rubbed his hands
with enjoyment, at the effect he had produced.

"Remember where you are, Sam," said Parson Bowden solemnly; "when did
this most sad thing happen? The King is the head of the Church, Sam Fry;
when did he leave her?"

"Day afore yesterday. Twelve o'clock. Warn't us quick to hear of 'un?"