lady made noise
enough when she thought you'd been made away with: and afterwards,
when she went upstairs and, taking a glance out of window, spied a
long black coffin laid out under the lilac bushes, I'm told you could
hear her a mile away. But she've been weakening this half-hour: her
nature couldn't keep it up: whereas the longer we keep that
Frenchman, the louder he seems to bellow."

"Heaven defend us, Calvin!"--the Parson's eyes fairly rolled in his
head--"are you gone clean crazed? Frenchman! What Frenchman?"

"The same that frightened Mrs. Polwhele, Sir, upon the coach.
We caught him drawing maps of the river, and very nigh tucked him in
Sam Trewhella's sean: and now he's in your tool-shed right and tight,
and here's the key, Sir, making so bold, that you gave me this
morning. But I didn't like to take him into the house, with your
good lady tumbling out of one fit into another. Hark to 'en, now!
Would you ever believe one man could make such a noise?"

"Fits! My poor, dear, tender Mary having fits!" The Parson broke
away for the house and dashed upstairs three steps at a time: and
when she caught sight of him, Mrs. Polwhele let out a louder squeal
than ever. But the next moment she was hanging round his neck, and
laughing and sobbing by turns. And how long they'd have clung to one
another there's no knowing, if it hadn't been for the language
pouring from the tool-shed.

"My dear," said the Parson, holding himself up and listening.
"I don't think that can possibly be a Frenchman. He's too fluent."

Mrs. Polwhele listened too, but after a while she was forced to cover
her face with both hands. "Oh, Richard, I've often heard 'en
described as gay, but--but they can't surely be so gay as all that!"

The Parson eased her into an armchair and went downstairs to the
courtyard, and there, as you may suppose, he found the parish
gathered.

"Stand back all of you," he ordered. "I've a notion that some
mistake has been committed: but you had best hold yourselves ready in
case the prisoner tries to escape."

"But Parson dear, you're never going to unlock that door!" cried my
grandfather.

"If you'll stand by me, Calvin," says the Parson, plucky as ginger,
and up he steps to the very door, all the parish holding its breath.

He tapped once--no answer: twice--and no more answer than before.
There was a small trap open in the roof and through this the language
kept pouring with never a stop, only now