They had paused for a moment at the head of the staircase, and his attention had been attracted by a small drawing hanging rather low down on the wall, close at hand. He stepped nearer to examine it.
It was a clever sketch in water-colour by a modern artist, and the draughtsmanship was superb. The subject was an old man with a long straggling beard and wearing tattered clothes, surrounded by a group of villagers and children. The creator had allowed his fancy full play, and the result, without being in any way a caricature, was full of a most merry and whimsical humour; and yet, by some stroke of his genius he had made the scene infinitely pathetic, and the central figure tragic and dignified for all his ragged attire. On the gold frame were printed the words "Rip van Winkle."
"Rip van Winkle," repeated Francis. "Who was he? Oh, don't tell me; I think I remember. Wasn't he the old Johnny who slept for a hundred years and woke up to find every one was dead and nobody knew him? He looks rather sad, poor old boy. The chap who did that knew how to draw, anyway."
He moved on to the next picture. "Oh, now we come to a gentleman in armour. Jolly uncomfortable that tin hat must have been."
"Supposing we sit here for a little while," suggested Philippa.
In the centre of the house the corridor widened into a square apartment known as the Guard Room, and tradition stated that the soldiers had here kept watch to ensure the safety of their sovereign, who had occupied a room close by, on the occasion of her famous visit to Bessacre High House.
The walls were panelled with oak and hung with portraits of dead-and-gone Heathcotes. A high oriel window threw good light upon the pictures, some of which were dark and dim with age.
Francis sat down on the window-seat and looked round him.
"Well, I can't call them a good-looking lot," he said, smiling. "What is the name of the man in the corner there in a flowing wig, Phil? I have forgotten all about them."
"Amyas Heathcote," read the girl. "He may not be good-looking, but he had a pretty taste in lace if one may judge by his ruffles."
"And a pretty taste in wives," said the doctor lightly, pointing to the picture hanging next. It represented a winsome dark-eyed woman in a brocaded frock, wearing a muslin cap over her powdered hair.