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"I'm sorry for it. I hate to see a pack of superstitious foreigners coming over here to teach heresy and pouch our money: they say the Huguenots 'ull end by having all the woollen trade at Rye, and the townsfolk are crying out to have 'em stopped."

"Surelye, I've heard the same. 'Tis a mercy they don't take to farming, since everything they do is done better than by other folk."

"I reckon if they all settle here and build houses our country 'ull be petty France. A pox on 'em! . . . But I won't stay talking of such things. I mun get home to my supper."

Harman looked round him quickly. Ned and the farm-men had gone back to their work, and he and Catherine were alone together at the corner of the house.

"May I turn another word on you, Madam Kate?"

"Surelye. What is it?"

"I'd would know when next there's to be Mass at Squire Tuktone's."

Catherine stiffened in her saddle and looked at him uneasily.

"And how think you I could tell that?"

"You go there, Mistress—that's well known in all this country."