o him and ask him whether he had seen 'his Worship?' Raymond only
shook his head in reply; and then, following the donkey and its owner
at a distance, he presently saw them turn into a narrow archway.

CHAPTER VII.

THE DARK PASSAGE.

Raymond crossed over to the opposite side of the road, in order to
take a look at the house to which the archway belonged. It was a
little old-fashioned inn, squeezed in between two tall houses, like a
shabby dwarf between two respectable giants. Over the door hung a
sign--a painting of a man with seven heads. They were ugly faces, all
of them, each with its peculiar kind of ugliness, and Raymond felt a
separate kind of dislike towards each one. Nevertheless (as might have
been expected, seeing that there was but one body between them) they
bore a sort of family likeness one to another. 'That must be a very
wicked body,' Raymond thought; 'it must be capable of committing all
the seven deadly sins at once.' It was thick and shapeless, with short
crooked legs, and very long arms. Underneath was written, '_The Seven
Brethren_.'

As he stood in the shadow on the opposite side of the street, with his
cap under his arm, Raymond felt half-minded not to enter the inn which
hung out so uninviting a sign. How different were these faces from
those of Armand, Dorimund, Sigismund, and the rest of the rosy young
farmers who drank milk at the Brindled Cow! Should he go back there
even now? There he would be sure of a welcome: he was not sure of a
welcome here. Raymond hesitated. But before he could make up his mind
the barmaid of the Seven Brethren appeared at the door of the inn. She
soon espied him where he stood, and smiled and beckoned to him.

'Come over, come over, my lad,' she said; 'it's just upon supper-time,
and there's a chop on the gridiron, and a draught of brown ale I'll
draw for you. Come; you look right hungry.'

Her voice and look made Raymond's heart beat, for, in a certain way,
they were like Rosamund's. And yet they were unlike. She had eyes like
Rosamund's, but the expression in them was one which Rosamund never
wore. Her manner of speaking, too, resembled Rosamund's. Yet Rosamund
had never spoken in quite that tone. Raymond hardly knew whether to be
pleased or shocked. After a little hesitation he put on his cap and
came across the street to her.

'Oh! my Lord, I'm sure I crave your pardon!' exclaimed the girl,
dropping him a curtsey. But though her words were humble