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He was sorry that his master would not walk in the old ways his father had trodden. They were good, the old ways, and the new ways were bad, and he would always say so. In the good old days when he was a boy, folk lived quiet and contented, and when they died there was the priest to bury them. There were no priests now—they had all turned into preachers, and he did not hold with preachers any more than he held with tiles. Many and many years it was since he had seen the holy pyx hanging like a dove from the roof of Leasan Church, or heard the good words uttered; and none of the young folk could say a Paternoster—there was no use telling him Our Father was the same, because he knew different. And now they'd brought the King of Spain over and had had a hard to-do to get him away; they never had any trouble with the King of Spain in good King Harry's time.

"Whoo-oop!"

The crashing of twigs and branches in the shaw suddenly reached his deaf ears. At the same instant came a shout, and then a whirlwind passed over him, his heavens darkened with a horse's belly and his earth rocked with a horse's hoofs. "Oh, Maria! Oh, Neptune!" he cried as he sank into the ditch.