Workmen entered to remove the hangings and to dismantle the hall. Still the commons kept their places, as yet undecided; no general decision taken, none proposed, but yet the mass of them unmoving, and by their mere unmoving refusing the command of the crown.

It was at this moment, before as yet the artisans had begun their business of ladders and hammering, that there came out from the robing-room and from behind the cloths of the throne a figure with which the ceremony of the States General had already rendered them familiar: it was young Dreux Brézé, elegant, a trifle effeminate, little more than a boy. carried his white wand of the master of ceremonies, as he had carried it when the session opened, and his person was, by the costume of his office, all gold and plumes and many diamonds.

He

"Yes."

Then, turning to his colleagues, Bailly had begun to give his reasons to them, when he found striding up to his side, and facing Brézé, the heavy vigor of Mirabeau. It was Mirabeau, so striding up, who in his powerful voice interposed. With no official right to mandate, he spoke most famous words, of which tradition has made a varied and doubtful legend, but which were in substance these:

"Go tell those that sent you we are here by the will of the nation." He added either that force alone (of bayonets or what-not) could drive the commons out, or, as some say, that such force was powerless.

Even as he said it, Brézé, having his answer from the official head of the commons, thus recalcitrant, moved away. The custom of the court was on him, and he moved out backward with his white wand. Of the men who saw that piece of ritual, some said within themselves that the thing was a sign, and that sovereignty had passed from the Bourbons.

When he had gone there was silence again for a little while. It was broken by the workmen setting to their labor of dismantling the hall. Bailly ordered them to cease, and they obeyed the order.

Next Sieyes, with his firm, accurate mouth, pronounced a graven phrase expressing the mind of all: "You are to-day what you were yesterday." Immediately, upon the motion of Camus, a man too legal, but well able to define, the commons and such of the clergy as had remained with them voted unanimously their contradiction to the throne. They voted that all that they had passed, and all that they had done, they still maintained.

As the hands which had been raised everywhere to vote this motion fell again, the corner of French history was turned, and those curious to choose a precise point at which the outset of any matter may be set, should choose that moment of the fall of those hundreds of hands for the origin

to defeat it by force, the awful weapon which a solemn declaration of intention gives. But it also meant that if the commons were defeated, they had been guilty of treason.

Bailly, perhaps from confusion, perhaps from timidity, himself hesitated, until Mirabeau, understanding well what force it is that governs men, said:

"If you do not pass this motion, sixty of us, and you the first, will be arrested this very night."

A column of troops had already been formed outside the doors, though the decision to act at once was, perhaps in fear of Paris, not acted on by the crown. Five hundred and twenty-seven men passed the decree, and of these thirty-four voted

YOU might n't know what a church

grim was, I dare say, and for that matter, they be a branch of knowledge very much out of the common and very near forgot. And I'm properly sure I should n't have heard of no such fearful thing if I had n't actually seen one in my green youth, and heard tell of its great fame and powers. For these here churchgrims go back to another age than ours, when the folk believed in all manner of dark contrivances that you never hear tell upon now; though whether the hidden powers be there still, or whether they 've vanished at the will of their Creator, be a question beyond us mortals to answer. But one thing is clear as light to any thinking man, and that is that when our ancient forebears lifted our churches, they had a very different set of opinions from us who worship in them to-day.

We was always very proud of our church to Whiteworthy, where I dwelt as a lad, and though the Widecombe folk laughed us to scorn, and would have it that their St. Pancras was far grander than our St. Christopher, yet, bating the tower, which be only a trap for the lightning, when all 's said, we were so fine as them, if not finer. Besides, there was a proper story about our place, how the lord of the manor in the seventh Henry's time, or some such far-away age, fell out with the powers, and had his property took from him, house and lands and all. Indeed, he only escaped with his head, by all accounts; but the story went that afore the storm broke, the good knight fell to his prayers, and St. Christopher himself appeared afore the holy table and bade the man bring his treasures to mother church, so as they might be took care of for the generations to come. Sir Tobias Hele was the hero, and the old story seemed to show as he was persecuted wrongfully, else the saint would never have appeared with his good advice. But there it stood, and not a few still believed that Sir Toby

done what the saint told him; and as the ancient hero was buried in his own church, under a brass that people came miles to see, it all looked very proper and likely to be true.

But there was no old writings nor nothing to prove that Sir Toby had obeyed the saint, and so people believed or disbelieved according to their fancy. And some said that the story was true, but that the money had doubtless been taken away again after Sir Tobias's death; while others, including the Rev. Valletort, the vicar of Whiteworthy in my youth, held stoutly to it that the treasure was where Sir Toby put it, according to the direction of St. Christopher. Their reason was a good one: because, in the first place, Sir Toby was proved to be a bachelor, in itself a remarkable thing in them days; for bachelor men be a modern invention, if I hear aright, and in the old times they was so rare as white crows. And they did n't bear a very good character, neither, though today I could name a score of men, if I took thought, who carry the single state without suspicion, and are so respectable and well thought upon as me or you. Then, again, Sir Toby died a sudden death, as the church brass testified; and so it seemed a fair argument that he had n't time to shift his treasure from its hiding-place even if he wanted to do so.

A name clings to a district like mud to a hobnailed boot, and though he 'd been gone for scores and hundreds of years, yet there were Heles in Whiteworthy still, though, of course, only humble people on the land, for the most part. And there was a Tobias Hele, too, the son of Mary Hele; and she was a widow, and he was her prop and stay.

A very unusual fashion of man was this Toby, and people could n't believe his blood had run through his father's veins; for old Hele just broke stones and mended roads with them, and put his mark to a document when necessary, for he could n't

read to his dying day, nor yet write. But Toby Hele had a brain, and was a highstrung, nervy chap, with a hand like a gentleman and a quick way and an inquiring mind. In fact he might have made a name for himself and been the pride of his native village if he had n't been such a lazy good-for-naught; but his nature was blended of mixed material, and, no doubt, if the people had traced his havage back for a few generations, they 'd have found some remarkable character had had a hand in Toby. His qualities were strong, but they balanced each other, and so left the man pretty much like other men.

And for some reason that was unfortunate for him. Because with his cleverness, if he 'd been industrious, he might have gone far; and if he 'd been proud and ambitious, none can tell what he 'd have reached up to. While, again, with his nimble wits and loose opinions, he only lacked one thing to make him a thorn in the side of the people and a dangerous character all round. And that thing was pluck. He was a coward, an accident that stood between him and a lot of wickedness, without a doubt. As a child he was a proper wonder at sending the other boys through the hedge to steal the apples, and he 'd find the brains every time, so long as some other young rip found the pluck; but along of this weakness, he never got himself into any serious trouble, and was generally left on the safe side of the fence both as a boy and a man.

a

People did n't like him very much, but they employed him, because he was clever thatcher, and you can't do much harm to the community if your work only lies in putting straw on ricks and cottages. He was an artist in his way, and took a pride in his work; he also had a fancy for book-learning, and it was along of that he won over the Rev. Valletort, and got on his blind side afore he left the parish school. Because if a person was fond of learning, and took an interest in benchends and old stones and the inscriptions on bells, or any old rubbige like that, he might be as wicked as you please; but the Rev. Valletort would n't hear a word against him.

Toby Hele once found a splinter of flint up over on Hameldon, just a little a little piece fashioned in shape of an arrow-head,

and made by the heathen old men afore the dawn of history. He took it to his reverence, and from that day forever the parson swore by him, and always took his part against the parish if need be. And if Toby had cut his mother's throat, the Rev. Valletort would have said 't was no great odds; because he held most steadfast' that a young youth who could find an ancient arrow-head and bring it to him must be a wonder, and something quite above law and order and common contrivances of that kind. And he properly. spoiled young Hele, and poured his own learning into him until Toby knew as much about Dartmoor, and the roundypoundies, and queer, silly things left lying about up there by the savages of old time, as parson did himself. And Tobias made his own discoveries, too, and took a great pleasure in showing them to visitors for money; for he was a curious mixture of the dove and the sarpent, you may say, and when he found out as these flint fragments was worth a bit, he always seemed to have a few things on hand for the summer visitors. You could always buy an ancient granite tin-mold or an arrowhead or such like curiosity from him, though whether they was as ancient as they looked, only he knew.

But the vicar held to him, and as he grew up into manhood, he went digging with his reverence by day, and read the lessons in church of a Sunday, besides taking round the dish for alms. And all this may have made a better man of him in some directions, though those who knew him best reckoned that he done these holy things for business rather than pleasure, and to keep in with the vicarage.

Then fate over-got Toby after the usual fashion, and he fell in love with a fine girl by name of Beth Mannaford. She was Timothy Mannaford's daughter, and he was a small farmer, with her for his one child. He only rented, however, and was always hard up. Beth liked Toby well enough, and it would have gone through and nothing said; but Mannaford always counted to be kept out of the workhouse by his offspring some day, because she was a very fine girl and fair to look on. So he reckoned that she must make a good match presently, and have a chimney-corner for him when he was too old to work.