



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Crown and Sceptre
A West Country Story
By George Manville Fenn
Illustrations by J Nash
Published by Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, London.

Crown and Sceptre, a West Country Story, by George Manville Fenn.

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I groaned a bit when I saw that this story was about the Civil War in
England, in the mid-seventeenth century.  But I soon realised that it
was a very good story, told in the tension-laden Fenn style.

We start off in the Devon coombes (valleys near the sea) with two
families that are close friends.  The Markhams live at The Hall, while
the Forresters live at The Manor.  There are two teenage boys: Scarlett
Markham and Fred Forrester.  The boys come upon secret passages and
secret chambers in the Hall, and also some other long-forgotten shafts
and wells leading to the outside.

Then came the Civil War, in which the Roundheads fought for a country
subservient to Parliament, while the Cavaliers fought for the King.
The Markhams and their household became Cavaliers, while the Forresters
were Roundheads.  Thus the two families became, at least in theory,
deadly enemies.  Needless to say, it didn't always work out exactly like
that, and the boys at least, now young officers, and the family
retainers, sometimes helped one another in ways the fathers would not
approve of.

The manor is burnt down, and Sir Godfrey Markham very seriously wounded.
It is only by Scarlett's knowledge of the secret passages that he is
saved.  We will not spoil the rest of the story for you by telling you
the rest of it, but we assure you that it very well written, and did not
at all merit my initial groans.  Another very good read, or listen.

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CROWN AND SCEPTRE, A WEST COUNTRY STORY, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.

CHAPTER ONE.

IN THE WEST COUNTREE.

"Derry down, derry down, derry down!"

A cheery voice rolling out the chorus of an old west-country ditty.

Then there was a run of a few yards, a sudden stoppage, and a round, red
missile was thrown with considerable force after a blackcock, which rose
on whirring wings from among the heather, his violet-black plumage
glistening in the autumn sun, as he skimmed over the moor, and
disappeared down the side of a hollow coombe.

"Missed him," said the thrower, thrusting his hand into his pocket, and
bringing out a similar object to that which he had used as a missile,
but putting it to a far different purpose; for he raised it to his
mouth, drew back his red lips, and with one sharp crunch drove two rows
of white teeth through the ruddy skin, cut out a great circular piece of
apple, spat it out, and threw the rest away.

"What a sour one!" he cried, as he dived after another, which proved to
be more satisfactory, for he went on munching, as he made his short cut
over the moor towards where, in a sheltered hollow, a stone building
peeped from a grove of huge oaks.

The sun shone brightly as, with elastic tread, the singer, a lad of
about sixteen, walked swiftly over the elevated moorland, now descending
into a hollow, now climbing a stiff <DW72>, at whose top he could look
over the sea, which spread away to north and west, one dazzling plain of
damasked silver, dotted with red-sailed boats.  Then down another <DW72>
facing the south, where for a moment the boy paused to deliver a sharp
kick at something on the short fine grass.

"Ah, would you!" he exclaimed, following up the kick by a jump which
landed him upon a little writhing object, which repeated its first
attack, striking with lightning rapidity at the lad's boot, before lying
crushed and helpless, never to bask in the bright sun again.

"Serve you right, you nasty poisonous little beast!" cried the boy,
crushing his assailant's head beneath his heel.  "You got the worst of
it.  Think the moor belonged to you?  Lucky I had on my boots."

He dropped upon the ground, drew off a deer-skin boot, and, with his
good-looking, fair boyish face all in wrinkles, proceeded to examine the
toe, removing therefrom a couple of tiny points with his knife.

"What sharp teeth adders have