ven
my grandfather clucked down a little in the grave as he passed.

"The very man!" said Spry, under his breath.

"The wicked flee, whom no man pursueth," said my grandfather, looking
after the man; but Bligh turned his head neither to the right hand
nor to the left.

"Oh--oh--oh!" squealed a voice inside the church.

"Whatever was _that_," cries Arch'laus Spry, giving a jump. They
both stared at the porch.

"Oh--oh--oh!" squealed the voice again.

"It certainly comes from inside," said Arch'laus Spry.

"It's Mrs. Polwhele!" said my grandfather; "and by the noise of it
she's having hysterics."

And with that he scrambled up and ran; and Spry heaved himself over
the wall and followed. And there, in the south aisle, they found
Mrs. Polwhele lying back in a pew and kicking like a stallion in a
loose-box.

My grandfather took her by the shoulders, while Spry ran for the jug
of holy water that stood by the font. As it happened, 'twas empty:
but the sight of it fetched her to, and she raised herself up with a
shiver.

"The Frenchman!" she cries out, pointing. "The Frenchman--on the
coach! O Lord, deliver us!"

For a moment, as you'll guess, my grandfather was puzzled: but he
stared where the poor lady pointed, and after a bit he began to
understand. I dare say you've seen our church, Sir, and if so, you
must have taken note of a monstrous fine fig-tree growing out of the
south wall--"the marvel of Manaccan," we used to call it. When they
restored the church the other day nobody had the heart to destroy the
tree, for all the damage it did to the building--having come there
the Lord knows how, and grown there since the Lord knows when.
So they took and patched up the wall around it, and there it thrives.
But in the times I'm telling of, it had split the wall so that from
inside you could look straight through the crack into the churchyard;
and 'twas to this crack that Mrs. Polwhele's finger pointed.

"Eh?" said my grandfather. "The furriner that went by just now, was
it he that frightened ye, Ma'am?"

Mrs. Polwhele nodded.

"But what put it into your head that he's a Frenchman?"

"Because French is his language. With these very ears I heard him
talk it! He joined the coach at Torpoint, and when I spoke him fair
in honest English not a word could he answer me. Oh, Calvin, Calvin!
what have I done--a poor weak woman--to be mixed up in these plots
and invasions?"

But my grandfather couldn't stop