page there is only a very slight tremulous irregularity, indicative of her state of mind at the time of the subscription.  But the last signature is incomplete, defaced, and blotted; for, while her hand was employed in tracing it, the hasty tramp of a horse was heard at the gate, succeeded by a step in the outer gallery, and a voice which, in a commanding tone, bore down the opposition of the menials.  The pen dropped from Lucy’s fingers, as she exclaimed with a faint shriek:  “He is come—­he is come!”

CHAPTER XXXIII.

     This by his tongue should be a Montague! 
     Fetch me my rapier, boy;
     Now, by the faith and honour of my kin,
     To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.

     Romeo and Juliet.

Hardly had Miss Ashton dropped the pen, when the door of the apartment flew open, and the Master of Ravenswood entered the apartment.

Lockhard and another domestic, who had in vain attempted to oppose his passage through the gallery or antechamber, were seen standing on the threshold transfixed with surprise, which was instantly communicated to the whole party in the state-room.  That of Colonel Douglas Ashton was mingled with resentment; that of Bucklaw with haughty and affected indifference; the rest, even Lady Ashton herself, showed signs of fear; and Lucy seemed stiffened to stone by this unexpected apparition.  Apparition it might well be termed, for Ravenswood had more the appearance of one returned from the dead than of a living visitor.

He planted himself full in the middle of the apartment, opposite to the table at which Lucy was seated, on whom, as if she had been alone in the chamber, he bent his eyes with a mingled expression of deep grief and deliberate indignation.  His dark-coloured riding cloak, displaced from one shoulder, hung around one side of his person in the ample folds of the Spanish mantle.  The rest of his rich dress was travel-soiled, and deranged by hard riding.  He had a sword by his side, and pistols in his belt.  His slouched hat, which he had not removed at entrance, gave an additional gloom to his dark features, which, wasted by sorrow and marked by the ghastly look communicated by long illness, added to a countenance naturally somewhat stern and wild a fierce and even savage expression.  The matted and dishevelled locks of hair which escaped from under his hat, together with his fixed and unmoved posture, made his head more resemble that of a marble bust than that of a living man.  He said not a single word, and there was a deep silence in the company for more than two minutes.

It was broken by Lady Ashton, who in that space partly recovered her natural audacity.  She demanded to know the cause of this unauthorised intrusion.

“That is a question, madam,” said her son, “which I have the best right to ask; and I must request of the Master of Ravenswood to follow me where he can answer it at leisure.”