CHAPTER VI.

A STORM.

NED rose from his seat on the entrance of the two gentlemen; the

constable and gamekeeper remained at the door. Conscious of innocence,

the sailor confronted the knight with a quiet composure which

astonished his sister and Dan.

Sir Lacy was a short, thickly-built man, with bushy white whiskers, and

white hair, round a face whose usually pink hue was now flushed to a

deeper tint. His round, grey, prominent eyes, with their expression of

proud domineering insolence, disagreeably reminded Ned Franks of those

of the knight's namesake and son.

"Your name is Ned Franks," said Sir Lacy at once, without deigning to

take any notice of Mrs. Peele and her low curtsies.

"At your service, sir," answered Ned.

"You were trespassing in my park last evening?"

"No, indeed, he never left this cottage," began Bessy, but her brother

silenced her by a glance.

"I am sorry that I trespassed, sir," he said, respectfully, "I did not

see the board, and I was after this little creature."

He drew out the squirrel which, frightened by the entrance of

strangers, had taken refuge within his blue jacket.

"You were after something else," said Sir Lacy, roughly. "Do you

mean to say that you did not wilfully smash some twenty panes in my

conservatory last evening?"

Ned looked steadily into the face of the rude questioner as he replied,

"I was never in sight of your conservatory, sir; and as for smashing

your windows, I know no more who did the mischief than Mr. Curtis

himself." And as if to appeal to his sense of justice, Ned Franks

turned towards the clergyman.

"Perhaps you'll say that you know nothing about this," cried Sir Lacy,

holding out a large leaden ball on which was roughly scratched the word

"Sebastopol."

Ned Franks looked surprised, and, for a moment perplexed, and passed

his hand through his hair, as was his wont when in any difficulty.

"Can you deny that it is yours?" asked the knight.

"It is mine," said the sailor, frankly. "'Tis a ball which struck me

when we lay off the Crimea; but which—being spent—did not wound me at

all, and I kept it in remembrance of a preservation from death. I lost

it yesterday, I cannot tell where."

"I can tell where," exclaimed Sir Lacy, in a tone that rang through

the cottage, and reached the group of village boys, whom curiosity

had led to follow at a little distance the steps of the knight and

the constable. "I can tell where you lost it! It was picked up in my

conservatory this morning, having escaped notice last night when a

dozen stones were found, which, like it, had been used in breaking my

glass!"

Ned Franks with an effort kept down his temper, and replied calmly but

firmly, "How the ball came there I know not; it was certainly never

thrown by my hand."

"That's a falsehood!" cried the furious knight.

Then, indeed, the gunpowder blazed up in the breast of the young

sailor; he struck his hand on the table, and, with flashing eyes, he

exclaimed, "I never told a falsehood in my life, and you are the first

man who ever spoke such a word of Ned Franks."

Mr. Curtis laid his hand on the arm of Sir Lacy, and whispered

something to him in a low, earnest tone, while Bessy stood wringing her

hands, and Ned remained with his form drawn up to more than its usual

height, looking as a man might look who was facing desperate odds, but

with unflinching resolution.

"Don't tell me!" exclaimed Sir Lacy, shaking off the hand of the

clergyman. "He shall go to the lock-up at once, and answer for himself

before the magistrate to-morrow. The fellow shall pay for my broken

glass with a couple of months in jail! Here, Masson!"

And at the call, the constable entered, and Ned Franks was given to him

in charge.

Surprise, indignation, anguish, struggled in the breast of the seaman;

his first strong impulse was to knock the constable down! But even in

the sudden gust of passion Ned, whose leading principle was love and

faith towards God, was like a ship that still obeys the helm, even when

tost on a raging sea.

"The God of Truth will make my truth clear one day!" Ned exclaimed, and

with that appeal to One who could never be unjust, and who had Himself

endured the anguish of reproach and false accusation, the sharpest

pang of the seaman's trial passed away. He remembered that he was

drinking of his Master's cup, and would submit to do so for the sake

of that Master. With more composure than Ned but an hour before would

have believed himself capable of showing under such circumstances—for

disgrace to the seaman was worse than death—he gave a few needful

directions to his sister, commended his lame squirrel to her care, and

bade her and Dan good-bye.

"Cheer up," were the sailor's words, as he wrung Bessy's hand at

parting, "the blackest cloud will blow over, and we can't be driven

from our moorings while the cable of truth holds fast."