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"Sir," said old Salterne, "as you say, we are burghers and plain men, and some of us have forgotten ourselves a little, perhaps; we must beg you to forgive our want of manners, and to put it down to the strength of my wine; for insolent we never meant to be, especially to a noble gentleman and a foreigner."
To worship, not to wed, Celestials bid me: I dreamt to mate in heaven, and wake in hell; Forever doom'd, Ixion-like, to reel On mine own passions' ever-burning wheel." At which the simple sailor sighed, and longed that he could write such neat verses, and sing them so sweetly. How he would besiege the ear of Rose Salterne with amorous ditties!
The authorities wanted Amyas's immediate attendance, for he was one of the last, it seemed, who had seen Mr. Salterne alive. Salterne had gone over, as soon as Amyas departed, to an old acquaintance; signed and sealed his will in their presence with a firm and cheerful countenance, refusing all condolence; and then gone home, and locked himself into Rose's room.
I must see Cary; I must see Salterne; and I suppose, if I am ready to do my duty, I shall learn somehow what it is. Now to sleep; to-morrow up and away to what God sends." "Come in hither, men," shouted he down the passage, "and sleep here. Haven't you had enough of this villainous sour cider?" The men came in yawning, and settled themselves to sleep on the floor. "Where's Yeo?"
"I can't say that, but there's a poor, innocent young maid gone off with him, one Salterne's daughter." "Rose Salterne, the mayor's daughter, the Rose of Torridge?" "That's her. Bless your dear soul, what ails you?" Amyas had dropped back in his seat as if he had been shot; but he recovered himself, and next morning started for Bideford. The story was true.
"One will do, Mr. Salterne, if one is quick enough with it." "Humph! Ah No use being in a hurry. I haven't been in a hurry. No I waited for you; and here you are and welcome, sir! Here comes supper, a light matter, sir, you see. A capon and a brace of partridges. I had no time to feast you as you deserve."
They lifted him into their remaining boat, rowed him ashore, carried him painfully up the hill to the old castle, and made a bed for him on the floor, in the very room in which Don Guzman and Rose Salterne had plighted their troth to each other, five wild years before. Three miserable days were passed within that lonely tower.
But this time they happened to meet full; and Cary could not pass without speaking to him. "Well, Mr. Salterne, and how goes on the shipping trade?" "Well enough, sir, if some of you young gentlemen would but follow Mr. Leigh's example, and go forth to find us stay-at-homes new markets for our ware." "What? you want to be rid of us, eh?" "I don't know why I should, sir.
This spot must not be quitted without recalling that Marsland-mouth is the home of Lucy Passmore, the white witch in Westward Ho! It was hither that Rose Salterne came to perform the love-charm that should reveal her lover. It can hardly be said that such superstitions have yet died out of the West Country, but it is the older people now that cherish these ideas, secretly and furtively.
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