ion was more directly
addressed, seemed in the situation of a performer who has ventured to
take upon himself a part which he finds himself unable to present,
and who comes to a pause when it is most to be expected that he should
speak. While he endeavoured to cover his embarrassment with the exterior
ceremonials of a well-bred demeanour, it was obvious that, in making his
bow, one foot shuffled forward, as if to advance, the other backward, as
if with the purpose of escape; and as he undid the cape of his coat, and
raised his beaver from his face, his fingers fumbled as if the one had
been linked with rusted iron, or the other had weighed equal with a
stone of lead. The darkness of the sky seemed to increase, as if to
supply the want of those mufflings which he laid aside with such evident
reluctance. The impatience of Ravenswood increased also in proportion to
the delay of the stranger, and he appeared to struggle under agitation,
though probably from a very different cause. He laboured to restrain his
desire to speak, while the stranger, to all appearance, was at a loss
for words to express what he felt necessary to say.

At length Ravenswood's impatience broke the bounds he had imposed upon
it. "I perceive," he said, "that Sir William Ashton is unwilling to
announced himself in the Castle of Wolf's Crag."

"I had hoped it was unnecessary," said the Lord Keeper, relieved from
his silence, as a spectre by the voice of the exorcist, "and I am
obliged to you, Master of Ravenswood, for breaking the ice at once,
where circumstances--unhappy circumstances, let me call them--rendered
self-introduction peculiarly awkward."

"And I am not then," said the Master of Ravenswood, gravely, "to
consider the honour of this visit as purely accidental?"

"Let us distinguish a little," said the Keeper, assuming an appearance
of ease which perhaps his heart was a stranger to; "this is an honour
which I have eagerly desired for some time, but which I might never
have obtained, save for the accident of the storm. My daughter and I are
alike grateful for this opportunity of thanking the brave man to whom
she owes her life and I mine."

The hatred which divided the great families in the feudal times had lost
little of its bitterness, though it no longer expressed itself in
deeds of open violence. Not the feelings which Ravenswood had begun to
entertain towards Lucy Ashton, not the hospitality due to his guests,
were able entirely to su