Now the reason why the Doones did not attack us was that they were preparing to meet another and more powerful assault upon their fortress; being assured that their repulse of King’s troops could not be looked over when brought before the authorities.  And no doubt they were right; for although the conflicts in the Government during that summer and autumn had delayed the matter yet positive orders had been issued that these outlaws and malefactors should at any price be brought to justice; when the sudden death of King Charles the Second threw all things into confusion, and all minds into a panic.

We heard of it first in church, on Sunday, the eighth day of February, 1684-5, from a cousin of John Fry, who had ridden over on purpose from Porlock.  He came in just before the anthem, splashed and heated from his ride, so that every one turned and looked at him.  He wanted to create a stir (knowing how much would be made of him), and he took the best way to do it.  For he let the anthem go by very quietly—­or rather I should say very pleasingly, for our choir was exceeding proud of itself, and I sang bass twice as loud as a bull, to beat the clerk with the clarionet—­and then just as Parson Bowden, with a look of pride at his minstrels, was kneeling down to begin the prayer for the King’s Most Excellent Majesty (for he never read the litany, except upon Easter Sunday), up jumps young Sam Fry, and shouts,—­

“I forbid that there prai-er.”

“What!” cried the parson, rising slowly, and looking for some one to shut the door:  “have we a rebel in the congregation?” For the parson was growing short-sighted now, and knew not Sam Fry at that distance.

“No,” replied Sam, not a whit abashed by the staring of all the parish; “no rebel, parson; but a man who mislaiketh popery and murder.  That there prai-er be a prai-er for the dead.”

“Nay,” cried the parson, now recognising and knowing him to be our John’s first cousin, “you do not mean to say, Sam, that His Gracious Majesty is dead!”

“Dead as a sto-un:  poisoned by they Papishers.”  And Sam rubbed his hands with enjoyment, at the effect he had produced.

“Remember where you are, Sam,” said Parson Bowden solemnly; “when did this most sad thing happen?  The King is the head of the Church, Sam Fry; when did he leave her?”

“Day afore yesterday.  Twelve o’clock.  Warn’t us quick to hear of ’un?”

“Can’t be,” said the minister:  “the tidings can never have come so soon.  Anyhow, he will want it all the more.  Let us pray for His Gracious Majesty.”

And with that he proceeded as usual; but nobody cried “Amen,” for fear of being entangled with Popery.  But after giving forth his text, our parson said a few words out of book, about the many virtues of His Majesty, and self-denial, and devotion, comparing his pious mirth to the dancing of the patriarch David before the ark of the covenant; and he added, with some severity, that if his flock would not join their pastor (who was much more likely to judge aright) in praying for the King, the least they could do on returning home was to pray that the King might not be dead, as his enemies had asserted.