ance; yet not lying in
his bed, but set upright in a chair, with a loose red cloak thrown over
him. Upon this his white hair fell, and his pallid fingers lay in a
ghastly fashion without a sign of life or movement or of the power that
kept him up; all rigid, calm, and relentless. Only in his great black
eyes, fixed upon me solemnly, all the power of his body dwelt, all the
life of his soul was burning.

I could not look at him very nicely, being afeared of the death in his
face, and most afeared to show it. And to tell the truth, my poor
blue eyes fell away from the blackness of his, as if it had been my
coffin-plate. Therefore I made a low obeisance, and tried not to shiver.
Only I groaned that Lorna thought it good manners to leave us two
together.

"Ah," said the old man, and his voice seemed to come from a cavern of
skeletons; "are you that great John Ridd?"

"John Ridd is my name, your honour," was all that I could answer; "and I
hope your worship is better."

"Child, have you sense enough to know what you have been doing?"

"Yes, I knew right well," I answered, "that I have set mine eyes far
above my rank."

"Are you ignorant that Lorna Doone is born of the oldest families
remaining in North Europe?"

"I was ignorant of that, your worship; yet I knew of her high descent
from the Doones of Bagworthy."

The old man's eyes, like fire, probed me whether I was jesting; then
perceiving how grave I was, and thinking that I could not laugh (as many
people suppose of me), he took on himself to make good the deficiency
with a very bitter smile.

"And know you of your own low descent from the Ridds of Oare?"

"Sir," I answered, being as yet unaccustomed to this style of speech,
"the Ridds, of Oare, have been honest men twice as long as the Doones
have been rogues."

"I would not answer for that, John," Sir Ensor replied, very quietly,
when I expected fury. "If it be so, thy family is the very oldest in
Europe. Now hearken to me, boy, or clown, or honest fool, or whatever
thou art; hearken to an old man's words, who has not many hours to live.
There is nothing in this world to fear, nothing to revere or trust,
nothing even to hope for; least of all, is there aught to love."

"I hope your worship is not quite right," I answered, with great
misgivings; "else it is a sad mistake for anybody to live, sir."

"Therefore," he continued, as if I had never spoken, "though it may seem
hard for a week or two, like the l