‘Davy, thou hast an enormous organ of Wonder in thy cranium; Malone, you see, has none; neither murders nor visions interest him. See what a big vacant Saph he looks at this moment.’

‘Saph! Who was Saph, sir?’

‘I thought you would not know: you may find it out; it is biblical. I know nothing more of him than his name and race; but from a boy upwards I have always attached a personality to Saph. Depend on it he was honest, heavy, and luckless; he met his end at Gob, by the hand of Sibbechai.’

‘But the vision, sir?’

‘Davy, thou shalt hear. Donne is biting his nails, and Malone yawning; so I will tell it but to thee. Mike is out of work, like many others, unfortunately; Mr. Grame, Sir Philip Nunnely’s steward, gave him a job about the Priory. According to his account, Mike was busy hedging rather late in the afternoon, but before dark, when he heard what he thought was a band at a distance—bugles, fifes, and the sound of a trumpet; it came from the forest, and he wondered that there should be music there. He looked up: all amongst the trees he saw moving objects, red, like poppies, or white, like May-blossom; the wood was full of them, they poured out and filled the park. He then perceived they were soldiers—thousands and tens of thousands; but they made no more noise than a swarm of midges on a summer evening. They formed in order, he affirmed, and marched, regiment after regiment, across the park; he followed them to Nunnely Common; the music still played soft and distant. On the common he watched them go through a number of evolutions—a man clothed in scarlet stood in the centre and directed them; they extended, he declared, over fifty acres; they were in sight half an hour; then they marched away quite silently; the whole time he heard neither voice nor tread—nothing but the faint music playing a solemn march.’

‘Where did they go, sir?’

‘Towards Briarfield. Mike followed them; they seemed passing Fieldhead, when a column of smoke, such as might be vomited by a park of artillery, spread noiseless over the fields, the road, the common, and rolled, he said, blue and dim, to his very feet. As it cleared away he looked again for the soldiers, but they were vanished; he saw them no more. Mike, like a wise Daniel as he is, not only rehearsed the vision, but gave the interpretation thereof: it signifies, he intimated, bloodshed and civil conflict.’

‘Do you credit it, sir?’ asked Sweeting.

‘Do you, Davy? But come, Malone, why are you not off?’

‘I am rather surprised, sir, you did not stay with Moore yourself; you like this kind of thing.’

‘So I should have done, had I not unfortunately happened to engage Boultby to sup with me on his way home from the Bible Society meeting at Nunnely. I promised to send you as my substitute, for which, by-the-bye, he did not thank me: he would much rather have had me than you, Peter. Should there be any real need of help, I shall join you; the mill-bell will give warning. Meantime go, unless’ (turning suddenly to Messrs. Sweeting and Donne— ‘unless Davy Sweeting or Joseph Donne prefers going. What do you say, gentlemen? The commission is an honourable one, not without the seasoning of a little real peril; for the country is in a queer state, as you all know, and Moore and his mill and his machinery are held in sufficient odium. There are chivalric sentiments, there is high-beating courage under those waistcoats of yours, I doubt not. Perhaps I am too partial to my favourite, Peter; little David shall be the champion, or spotless Joseph. Malone, you are but a great floundering Saul after all, good only to lend your armour: out with your firearms, fetch your shillelagh; it is there—in the corner.’

With a significant grin, Malone produced his pistols, offering one to each of his brethren. They were not readily seized on; with graceful modesty each gentleman retired a step from the presented weapon.

‘I never touch them; I never did touch anything of the kind,’ said Mr. Donne.