“It will be fairly divided, between our children,” John said; “but nobody else will get a drop or a crumb.  I have risked my life to get it for them.  If other people want to get it, let them do the same.  Besides, as I told you, Captain Davenant and his son both procured it for me for the sake of the children, and them only, and I should be breaking faith with them if any others touched it, save those for whom it was given me.  It is little enough among eighteen children for four days—­a pound of bread and a little over a pint of milk, each.  They must each have a quarter of a pint, when you bring it in tonight, and the rest had better be curdled.  That way it will keep, and they can have a portion each day of curds and whey, and a fourth share of their bread.  It is little enough; but I trust that it may keep life in them.”

“Well, John, I will do as you say,” the tanner said, after a pause.  “It goes somewhat against my conscience; but, as you say, it will make but a meagre portion for each of them, and would be nothing were it fairly divided; besides, you have brought it with the risk of your life, and I know not that any save you have a right to a voice in its partition.”

Before the gates were closed, John went out, and presently had the satisfaction of hearing a small stone drop from the wall above him, followed presently by the end of a rope.  He sent up the kegs, and then lay down among the bushes, and enjoyed the satisfaction of thinking of the joy of the little ones, when the milk and bread were served out to them.  As soon as the gates were open in the morning, he went in.

“Thank you, oh, so much, for the milk and bread last night.  We heard how you had swum so far, and gone into danger to get it for us, and we’re going to have some more for breakfast.”

“It was not much, dears,” John said.

“Oh, no, it was not much; but it was so nice, and we did all sleep so well last night—­even little Lucy didn’t waken and cry once—­and Ruth Hardy said we ought to call you the Raven; but we don’t like that name for you.”

“The Raven, Ruth!” John said, mystified.  “Why did you want to call me the Raven?”

“I wouldn’t do it if you didn’t like it, dear John; but you know that chapter that Master Williams read us, the other day, about the ravens that fed somebody in a cave, and we have been wishing the ravens would feed us; and so you see, when you sent us the milk last night, I thought you ought to be called the Raven.  I did not mean any harm.”

“No, my dear, of course not, and you can all call me the Raven, if you like.”

“No, no, John.  You are John, and that’s much better than the Raven.  They brought the man food, but they didn’t nurse him and tell him stories, as you do.”

“Now, run inside the castle,” John said, “and I will go in and get your breakfasts.”

John soon returned, with a great bowl of curds and whey, a platter piled up with slices of bread and a score of little mugs, and the feast began.  Scarce a word was said while the children were eating.  Their hunger was too keen, and their enjoyment too intense, to admit of speech.  When each had finished their portion, there was a general exclamation.