“I care not a groat for Master Tressilian,” he said; “I have done more than bargain by him, and I have brought his errant-damosel within his reach, so that he may look after her himself.  But I fear the poor thing is in much danger amongst these stormy spirits.  I will to her chamber, and tell her the fate which has befallen her letter, that she may write another if she list.  She cannot lack a messenger, I trow, where there are so many lackeys that can carry a letter to their lord.  And I will tell her also that I leave the Castle, trusting her to God, her own guidance, and Master Tressilian’s care and looking after.  Perhaps she may remember the ring she offered me—­it was well earned, I trow; but she is a lovely creature, and—­marry hang the ring!  I will not bear a base spirit for the matter.  If I fare ill in this world for my good-nature, I shall have better chance in the next.  So now for the lady, and then for the road.”

With the stealthy step and jealous eye of the cat that steals on her prey, Wayland resumed the way to the Countess’s chamber, sliding along by the side of the courts and passages, alike observant of all around him, and studious himself to escape observation.  In this manner he crossed the outward and inward Castle yard, and the great arched passage, which, running betwixt the range of kitchen offices and the hall, led to the bottom of the little winding-stair that gave access to the chambers of Mervyn’s Tower.

The artist congratulated himself on having escaped the various perils of his journey, and was in the act of ascending by two steps at once, when he observed that the shadow of a man, thrown from a door which stood ajar, darkened the opposite wall of the staircase.  Wayland drew back cautiously, went down to the inner courtyard, spent about a quarter of an hour, which seemed at least quadruple its usual duration, in walking from place to place, and then returned to the tower, in hopes to find that the lurker had disappeared.  He ascended as high as the suspicious spot—­there was no shadow on the wall; he ascended a few yards farther—­the door was still ajar, and he was doubtful whether to advance or retreat, when it was suddenly thrown wide open, and Michael Lambourne bolted out upon the astonished Wayland.  “Who the devil art thou? and what seekest thou in this part of the Castle? march into that chamber, and be hanged to thee!”

“I am no dog, to go at every man’s whistle,” said the artist, affecting a confidence which was belied by a timid shake in his voice.

“Sayest thou me so?—­Come hither, Lawrence Staples.”

A huge, ill-made and ill-looked fellow, upwards of six feet high, appeared at the door, and Lambourne proceeded:  “If thou be’st so fond of this tower, my friend, thou shalt see its foundations, good twelve feet below the bed of the lake, and tenanted by certain jolly toads, snakes, and so forth, which thou wilt find mighty good company.  Therefore, once more I ask you in fair play, who thou art, and what thou seekest here?”