'Those are your arms?' asked Mirelle, looking at the chimney-piece. 'What birds are those?'
'Owls,' answered Mr. Battishill, proudly; 'owls argent, beaked and clawed or.'
Mirelle contemplated the owls, then looked at the gentleman, with his blank eyes, beak-like nose, and grey hair. Her lips twitched slightly, but she was too well bred to smile.
'The bird is dedicated to Minerva. It is the symbol of wisdom,' she said.
'The Battishills were ever owls,' said he, proudly. Then he asked, glancing at the young man, 'Is this gentleman your brother?'
Mirelle looked up full for the first time into the young stranger's face.
'He is no relative of mine. I do not even know his name.'
'My name,' said he, stepping forward, 'is John Herring.' He was interrupted by a laugh from Mirelle.
'Herring!' she exclaimed, 'Quel drôle de nom! That is a fish they split and pickle, and pack in barrels, is it not?' The young man coloured.
The young gentleman drew back, wounded. He said nothing more about himself, but asked Mr. Battishill in a low voice for a lantern.
'The trunks and portmanteaus are lying with the broken chaise, and I must see to their being placed under shelter and in security. Are there men about the premises who can assist me?'
'There will be some difficulty about finding a man,' answered Mr. Battishill. 'We do not keep one in the house, and the cottages are at a distance. You will not find your way to them by night. Do not trouble about the trunks; leave them till morning. No one will touch them.'
'I prefer removing them. When the post-boy returns from Okehampton with the doctor, I will secure his assistance.'
Cicely had lighted a lantern whilst her father was speaking. She offered it to John Herring. 'I will go for you to the cottages,' she said; 'I will send some men to help you.' She accompanied him to the door. 'It is quite right that the things should not be left out all night on the moor. There are tramps on the Exeter road, and the Cobbledicks are close by.' She opened the door, and the light fell on Joyce.
'Why, Joyce, you here still? I thought you had gone back to the Giant's Table.'
'If I were to go back to vaither, he'd kill me. I ha' lost he his old barril, and him won't sleep under the table a'cos mother be there wi' her playful ways, tormenting of he.'