f Blenkinsopp is connected.

Where Tipalt Burn falls into Tyne, stand on the opposite bank the ruins
of Bellister Castle. There, many hundred years ago, dwelt a branch of
the Blenkinsopps. To Bellister there came one night at the gloaming a
wandering harper, begging for shelter from the bitter northerly blast
that gripped his rheumatic old joints, and sported with his failing
strength. He was a man past middle age, with hair thin and grey, and a
face worn and lined; his tattered clothes gave scant protection from
inclement weather. As was the custom in those times, the minstrel's
welcome was hearty. Food and drink, and a seat near the fire, were his,
and soon his blood thawed, the bent form of the man seemed to
straighten, and his eye kindled as, later in the evening, "high placed
in hall, a welcome guest," he touched his harp and sang to the company.
You could scarcely now recognise the weary, bent, old scarecrow that but
two hours back had trailed, footsore and tired, across the castle
drawbridge. The change was astonishing, and many jested with the harper
on the subject.

But one there was who noticed, and who did not jest. They were
increasingly uneasy looks that the lord of the castle from time to time
threw towards the minstrel. What, he pondered unquietly, caused this
amazing change in the appearance of one who so lately had seemed to be
almost on the verge of the grave? Was he in truth the frail old man he
had pretended to be, or had he overacted his part, and was he no
minstrel, but an enemy in disguise? The lord's looks grew blacker and
more black, and ever more uneasy as the evening proceeded; and the more
he suspected, the more he drank to drown the disquiet of his mind. At
length his unease became so marked that unavoidably it communicated
itself to the rest of the company. Even the rough men-at-arms desisted
from their boisterous jests, and spoke beneath their breath. The harper
glancing around as the silence grew, and finding the lord's black looks
ever upon him, trailed off at last in his song and sat mute, with
uncertain fingers plucking at the strings of his instrument. The company
broke up, glad to escape from the gloom of their lord's glances, and
somebody showed the old man to a rude chamber, where a bundle of pease
straw was to serve him for bed.

But the lord of Bellister sat on, "glooming" morbidly to himself. Bitter
feud existed between him and a neighbouring baron. Had he not cause to
distru