mr. norcot found the life at fox tor farm so much to his taste that he prolonged his visit, and sent the young man, thomas putt, with a message to his sister gertrude at chagford for more clothes. he felt secretly hopeful that each day was strengthening his position, and, indeed, by riding to the war prison and seeing the commandant on behalf of cecil stark, he won some thanks and a definite expression of gratitude from grace malherb.

"they have released him out of the cachot," said peter. "once more he labours at the place of worship, 'pride in his port, defiance in his eye.'"

together the man and maid continued their excursions upon dartmoor, and grace enjoyed both to hear and to tell stories and legends of the ancient desert. its romance found an echo in her youthful spirit and awoke new intellectual interests in her life. she soon learned the story of each lonely circle, uplifted monolith, and empty barrow from the age of stone; of every ruined cot or cross erected in times medi?val. among these last, perhaps the most famous upon the moor lay now within malherb's own borders.

"childe's tomb" had met grace's eyes when first she opened them upon a dartmoor dawn. by a rivulet at the edge of fox tor mire it stood, and she had gleaned its story and mourned the fate of the ancient hunter who fell there in winter tempest. mr. norcot, too, was familiar with the narrative, and since early boyhood he had gloated over its horrid details. now he pretended but a misty recollection of the tale, so that he might listen to grace.

the thing was in their eyes at the time, for they started on horseback and rode past it. beside the cross, harvey woodman, his son, richard beer, thomas putt, and another labourer were collected at a task. they worked upon each side of the little river that ran beside "childe's tomb," and levelled the banks to make a ford at a shallow point of the water. here they talked together when aching backs required rest; and it happened that their master and his guest were the theme of the moment.

"i'll hold for mister peter," declared putt. "he gived me a week's wages for going to chaggyford; an' he told me just so friendly as you might, when he seed me bringing in trout, that a grasshopper was a killing bait at this time of year. of course i know as much about grasshoppers as any man living; yet 'twas a very great condescension in him."

uncle smallridge made reply. he was now past work, but had walked from his distant cottage for the pleasure of a little conversation with familiars.

"'tis the human nature in 'un that counts," he said. "you'll find as a general thing the best men ban't the easiest to get on with."

"malherb's chock full o' human nature," declared mr. woodman.

"so full that he bursts wi' it—like a falling thunderbolt, till a man almost calls on the hills to cover him," admitted putt.

"that's because you catched it for idleness," answered woodman. "mr. narcot be like a machine oiled up to the last cog an' going so smooth an' suent that a child may turn the handle; an' maister's like a drashel[*] in clumsy hands—you don't know where 'twill fall next. but give me our man with all his faults an' fire."

[*] drashel: a flail.

"i'm afraid he'll try you sorely yet," foretold smallridge, and little guessed how near the ordeal had come.

"i'll cleave to him so long as it holds with honesty," said beer. "what mazes me is this: mr. peter never does nothing out of the common, nor never lapses from the level way of man with man, nor says a hard word to a fly; an' yet i doan't neighbour with him; an' t'other, despite his rages and crooked words and terrible rash goings on—as will damn your eyes for a look—why, i'd hold out for him against an army."

"'tis his weakness draws you to him," said uncle smallridge. "i know. us all likes to catch our betters tripping. it levels up the steep gulf that's fixed between master an' man, an' makes us more content with ourselves. you know how extra good t'other children get when one be extra naughty. this here norcot is above us in his estate, an' that we can forgive, for us can't help it; but we'm never too comfortable or kindly towards them as be much above us in vartues."

"for my part, it don't seem natural," said harvey woodman. "i don't believe in these great flights of goodness in man or woman. here and there a parson will stand out like a beacon on a hill, for 'tis his trade; but not them as lives to make money like peter norcot. when what shows in a man be so shining, i always ax myself about what don't show."

"'tis your jealous spirit," said putt.

"all the same, i don't care for a man as hides behind hisself like that wool-stapler do. the devil's got his corner in him, same as he have in every mother's son of us."

"he may have cast him out, however," ventured putt.

"cast him out at five-an'-thirty years of age—an' him a bachelor! no fey."

"well, he ban't bound to belittle hisself before the likes of us," said putt.

"here he be, anyway," added beer, for grace and peter now approached.

she was finishing the tragic history of childe as she rode beside him.

"and so the monks of tavistock found the poor frozen gentleman where this cross now stands, and they took him away that he might be buried in their town, for under his last will and testament those who buried him were to possess all his estates. others sought then to gain the body; but the good monks were too clever for them, and inherited the lands of plymstock."

"ah! 'they must rise betime, or rather not go to bed at all, that will overreach monks in matters of profit,' as fuller observes."

"the people hereabout call it 'childe's tomb,' yet it can only be a cenotaph, if the story is true."

"the whole thing is a legend, be sure. we shall never know the real use of this cross," answered peter.

"but might easily find a new one," said mr. kekewich, who walked beside grace on his way to the workers. "them stepstones be just the very thing we're wanting to bridge the river here."

"oh, kek! how can you?" cried grace.

"pull down a cross? tut, tut, iconoclast!" exclaimed mr. norcot.

"you may use wicked words, but stone be stone," answered the head man of fox tor farm sulkily; "an' what was one way of marking a grave in the old time may very well stand for a bridge to-day. look at they fools! what do they think they be doing?"

woodman heard the question.

"we'm making a ford, and you'm the fool, not us," he replied stoutly.

"what did the master say? tell me that," asked kekewich.

"he said 'a bridge,' for i heard him," declared norcot.

"ess, he did, an' when he sez 'bridge' he don't mean 'ford'; an' when he sez 'steer' he don't mean 'heifer,' do he? a bridge has got to be builded. so the sooner you fetch gunpowder an' go 'pon the moor to blast out a good slab of stone as'll go across here without a pier, the better."

"he don't always say what he mean, all the same," retorted putt, who was in a fighting mood. "yesterday he told me i was a pink-eyed rabbit, good for nought, an' this marning he called it back, an' said he was sorry he'd spoke it. that shows."

"that shows he can change his own mind; it don't show the likes of you can change it for him. here he comes, anyway, an' what i say, i say: that thicky cross-steps would make a very tidy bridge, an' save a week's work."

"you'd touch that cross!" gasped smallridge. "you—a foreigner from exeter!"

"us have a right to it."

"no man have a right to a stone once 'tis fashioned into a cross; an' if you was a christian 'stead of a crook-backed heathen, you'd know it an' if a finger be laid against it, i'd not give a straw for the future of any man amongst us," cried uncle smallridge, rising to his feet in great agitation.

"fright childer with your twaddle, not a growed-up soul," answered kekewich. "but no call to shake your jaw an' bristle up your old mane like that. my word ban't law. here the master cometh, an' you'm like to hear more than will be stomachable when he sees what you've been doing."

"the fault was mine, and i'll take the blame," answered richard beer. "you men bide quiet an' let his anger fall upon me."

grace and norcot, not desiring to see the labourers' discomfiture, rode away, and a moment later maurice malherb arrived upon the scene. his strong face, scarred with passion uncontrolled, grew dark again now, and the kindly look vanished from his eyes as the customary storm-cloud of black eyebrow settled upon them.

"what are you doing? what means this digging?" he asked.

"'tis me as done it, your honour," answered beer. "i thought as a ford——"

"a ford! what business have you to dare to think? i said a bridge."

"the stone——"

"look round you, you lazy rascal! stone—stone—curse the stone! scratch the ground anywhere, and it grins at you with its granite teeth! let that bridge be finished by sundown or clear out, the whole pack of ye! a ford! and had i said 'ford' you would have built a bridge!"

mr. beer grew pale behind his beard, but did not reply, and mr. woodman also kept his temper and addressed his son.

"go an' harness two bullocks to a truckamuck,"[*] he said, "an' you, putt, slip up to the shed an' get some irons as you'll find there."

[*] truckamuck: a sort of sledge.

then he turned to his master and spoke again—

"us'll set to work this instant moment, your honour."

"that's well—by sundown, mind."

malherb was riding off when old smallridge addressed him, and the ancient man precipitated the very accident he feared.

"an' if it please you, your honour's goodness, i do pray as you won't let no hand touch this here holy tomb. kekewich, as be grey enough to know better, have said that the stepstones would make a very tidy bridge an' save labour; but t'others tell me you never pay no heed to him, an' i hope your honour won't now."

the two old men glared at each other, and malherb answered. what he heard was nearly true, but that he heard it from uncle smallridge instantly angered him. that the labourers should have perceived how kekewich was ignored—that these hirelings should note their master's indifference to the wisdom of his servitor—again awoke malherb's temper.

"they say i don't heed kekewich? then they lie. kek's little finger holds more sense than all their stupid heads together."

whereon mr. kekewich shone around him as the sun emerging from a cloud.

"that cross there—good wrought stone wasted," he explained. "they steps might have been made for the bridge we want. so i told 'em; an' all they did was to show the whites of their silly eyes."

the master reflected but a moment; then he issued a command. he spoke in the name of reason—a favourite expedient with the unreasonable.

"good practical sense. now we'll see if i run counter to kekewich. he's right and you're wrong. here are stones lying useless on my land, and i want even such for a purpose. reason points to them, and i will use them. pull down that cross and build my bridge."

"i'd rather take other stones and chance the extra work," said richard beer uneasily.

"pull down that pile there and build my bridge before nightfall, or go your way—all of you," repeated malherb. then he departed and left the workers to make decision.

"an' the cross itself, if us knocks off one arm, will be just what we want for the pigs' house!" cried kekewich triumphantly.

"for god's love throw down your tools and come away!" begged smallridge, his ancient voice rising into a scream. "turn your backs upon this place before it's too late."

"hop off! hop off an' croak somewhere else, you old raven!" replied kek indignantly. "let these men use their brains without your bleating. ban't i old too? 'tis vain growing old unless you grow artful with it. if they have got their intellects, they won't mind you."

"nor you—you limb of the devil," groaned smallridge. "you—with his pitchfork in your forehead. i wish to god i'd never heard tell of you."

kekewich turned from him to harvey woodman and the rest.

"'tis up ten o'clock," he said, "an' you strong men in the prime of life have got to decide what you'll do about it, not this tootling old mumphead here. use your sense an' say whether you'll look for a new master an' mistress an' seven shilling a week, or bide here with better money an' corn an' cider an' all the fatness of the earth. i'll speak no word; only i might remind you, beer, an' you, woodman, that you've got wives—that's all."

"then 'tis for us to decide," said woodman solemnly—"us four: me, beer, putt, and you, mark bickford. here us stands. now you have your tell first, thomas putt, 'cause you'm the youngest."

"i'm a poor tool for such a job, an' i shan't say nothing," answered putt. "i'll abide by what you men do."

"so much for you then," said woodman. "us knows you haven't got more sense than, please god, you should have, yet 'tis a question whether you did ought to let another man keep your conscience. now, bickford, what's your view?"

mr. bickford, a man of colourless mind in the affairs of life, showed sudden and unexpected strength of purpose.

"i guess i'll bide an' pull the cross down," he said. "master do clapper-claw a bit, but he pays me eight shilling a week; an' where i gets such money as that 'tis my duty to stop. you may squeak," he added to uncle smallridge, who uttered an inarticulate exclamation of misery at his decision, "but i be keeping company; an' i also be keeping my old bed-lying mother out o' the poorhouse. an' i'd pull down fifty crosses afore i'd lose eight shilling a week. if there's a mischief in it, ban't of my brewing."

"well, then, 'tis for me an' you, harvey," proceeded richard beer. "an' since i'm the older man, i'll come last an' wind up on it when you've spoke your mind."

"a man like me with a wife an' son be in the worse fix of all," declared woodman moodily. "if evil follows, i may be twisting a scourge for the next generation, whereas you that be childless can only catch it in your own case an' dinah's. still, to go back to peat-cutting after fox tor farm is a great fall."

"the devil's tempting you, harvey!" cried mr. smallridge.

"shut your mouth, or i'll hit 'e on it!" retorted kekewich savagely. "leave 'em to fight it out. they've got to do their duty, an' i'd like to know whenever the a'mighty punished any man for doing that?"

"there's my duty to my master an' my duty to my conscience. 'tis our duty to our master to do what he pays us to do; and us be paid to work, not to think," argued woodman.

"if evil's to be hatched, us won't catch it," declared bickford. "when a man sets a rick on light, ban't the flint an' steel they has up for arsony, but the chap hisself. we'm no more than the flint an' steel in this matter."

"we've got immortal parts, however," argued beer. "we may hide our bodies behind another chap; but can us hide our souls? what i want to know is the nature of the harm we'll do. what's the name of it?"

"'tis insulting the lord of hosts," said uncle smallridge tremulously.

"gammon!" answered kekewich. "'tis obeying them as the lord have set in authority over you. we've got to do with a dead stone; an' the chap who be buried here found his way to heaven or hell long afore the lord, in a weak moment, let your parents get a fool like you."

"'tis the shape that shakes us, not the stone," explained woodman; "an' i wish you'd decide an' have done with it, richard beer. we are ready to go by you, for 'tis well knowed that you've a conscience as works so active as your skin in harvest time."

"well," replied beer, "i can't see no flaw in what bickford said. my conscience is allowed pretty peart, i believe; an it don't give me a twinge in this matter; though i'd much rather not do it all the same."

"suppose the lightning struck us," suggested putt, and beer scanned the sky.

"can't without a bible miracle; an', good or bad, the size of this job be too small for that. what harm falls will most surely fall 'pon master, not us."

"if i thought miss grace would suffer, i'd see the stone rot to dust afore i'd touch it," declared putt.

"whether or no, we've got to pull down childe's tomb, an' make a bridge; an' my conscience, an' my wages, an' my common sense all point the same way, so here goes," summed up mr. beer.

"i'm with you," said bickford.

"an' me too," added putt; "an' come judgment day, if there's a sharp word said to me, i shall name your name, dick beer."

"an' you, harvey?"

for answer mr. woodman turned to the sledge that his son had brought up. from this he took a rope and some long irons.

"come on! let's get it over. once the cross be down, our minds will grow easier. 'tis the shape, i tell you, as makes us so weak for a moment."

"god forgive you, souls!" cried smallridge; "an' mind, when you'm wading waist-deep in trouble, that it weren't no fault of mine. bide till i be out of sight, that's all. then you an' this here crooked old apollyon can go to your wicked work."

he looked at kekewich, shook his head at the doomed monument, and hobbled away as fast as his legs would carry him.

"us had better all spit over our left shoulders for luck," said mr. beer; "then we can begin. an' see that all four of us hang upon the rope together, so as the work an' the pay be equally divided."

harvey woodman's young son prepared to give assistance, but his father roughly bade him begone.

"you drop that rope an' get up to the farm to your mother," he said. "she'll find you a job. us don't want you to-day."