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."