The porter took the offered signet in silence, and only shook his head

in reply, as they passed together towards the house.

"You can tell me, I suppose, if Master Roland is still with his

Highness's army?"

"Alack and well-a-day! God is just and merciful; but, I take it, the

death of that noble boy has gone nigher to break my lady's heart than

any other sorrow: the flesh will war against the spirit. Had he died in

honourable combat at Marston or at Naseby, when first it was given him

to raise his arm in the Lord's cause!--but to fall in a drunken frolic,

not befitting a holy Christian to engage in--it was far more than my

poor lady could bear."

"Oliver promised to be a fine fellow."

"Do not talk of him, do not talk of him, I entreat you," replied the

domestic, placing his hand on his face to conceal his emotion; "he was,

indeed, my heart's darling. Long before Sir Robert succeeded to his

brother's property, and when we lived with my lady's father, I was the

old gentleman's huntsman, and that dear child was ever at my heels. The

Lord be praised! the Lord be praised! but I little thought the blue

waves would be his bier before he had seen his twentieth year. They are

all gone, sir: five such boys!--the girl, the lamb of the flock, only

left. You do not know her, do ye?" inquired the old man, peering with

much curiosity into the Skipper's face, as if recognising it as one he

had seen in former days.

The sailor made no answer.

They had now entered a small postern-door, which led to the hall by a

narrow passage; and the porter proceeded until they stood in one of

those vaulted entrances that usually convey an idea of the wealth and

power of the possessor.

"You can sit here till I return," observed the guide, again casting an

inquiring look upon the form and features of the guest.

"I sit in no man's hall," was the stern reply.

The porter withdrew, and the seaman, folding his arms, paced up and down

the paved vestibule, which showed evident tokens of the confusion that

sickness and death never fail to create. He paused occasionally before

the huge and gaping chimney, and extended his sinewy hands over the

flickering embers of the expiring fire: the lurid glare of the departing

flames only rendered the darkness of the farthermost portion of the hail

more deep and fearful. The clock chimed eleven: it was, as ever, the

voice of Time giving warning of eternity!




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