A VERY RASH VISIT My dear father had been killed by the Doones of Bagworthy, while riding home from Porlock market, on the Saturday evening.

With him were six brother-farmers, all of them very sober; for father would have no company with any man who went beyond half a gallon of beer, or a single gallon of cider.

The robbers had no grudge against him; for he had never flouted them, neither made overmuch of outcry, because they robbed other people.

For he was a man of such strict honesty, and due parish feeling, that he knew it to be every man's own business to defend himself and his goods; unless he belonged to our parish, and then we must look after him.
These seven good farmers were jogging along, helping one another in the troubles of the road, and singing goodly hymns and songs to keep their courage moving, when suddenly a horseman stopped in the starlight full across them.
By dress and arms they knew him well, and by his size and stature, shown against the glimmer of the evening star; and though he seemed one man to seven, it was in truth one man to one.

Of the six who had been singing songs and psalms about the power of God, and their own regeneration--such psalms as went the round, in those days, of the public-houses--there was not one but pulled out his money, and sang small beer to a Doone.
But father had been used to think that any man who was comfortable inside his own coat and waistcoat deserved to have no other set, unless he would strike a blow for them.