that, in making his bow, one foot shuffled forward, as if to advance, the other backward, as if with the purpose of escape; and as he undid the cape of his coat, and raised his beaver from his face, his fingers fumbled as if the one had been linked with rusted iron, or the other had weighed equal with a stone of lead.  The darkness of the sky seemed to increase, as if to supply the want of those mufflings which he laid aside with such evident reluctance.  The impatience of Ravenswood increased also in proportion to the delay of the stranger, and he appeared to struggle under agitation, though probably from a very different cause.  He laboured to restrain his desire to speak, while the stranger, to all appearance, was at a loss for words to express what he felt necessary to say.

At length Ravenswood’s impatience broke the bounds he had imposed upon it.  “I perceive,” he said, “that Sir William Ashton is unwilling to announced himself in the Castle of Wolf’s Crag.”

“I had hoped it was unnecessary,” said the Lord Keeper, relieved from his silence, as a spectre by the voice of the exorcist, “and I am obliged to you, Master of Ravenswood, for breaking the ice at once, where circumstances—­unhappy circumstances, let me call them—­rendered self-introduction peculiarly awkward.”

“And I am not then,” said the Master of Ravenswood, gravely, “to consider the honour of this visit as purely accidental?”

“Let us distinguish a little,” said the Keeper, assuming an appearance of ease which perhaps his heart was a stranger to; “this is an honour which I have eagerly desired for some time, but which I might never have obtained, save for the accident of the storm.  My daughter and I are alike grateful for this opportunity of thanking the brave man to whom she owes her life and I mine.”

The hatred which divided the great families in the feudal times had lost little of its bitterness, though it no longer expressed itself in deeds of open violence.  Not the feelings which Ravenswood had begun to entertain towards Lucy Ashton, not the hospitality due to his guests, were able entirely to subdue, though they warmly combated, the deep passions which arose within him at beholding his father’s foe standing in the hall of the family of which he had in a great measure accelerated the ruin.  His looks glanced from the father to the daughter with an irresolution of which Sir William Ashton did not think it proper to await the conclusion.  He had now disembarrassed himself of his riding-dress, and walking up to his daughter, he undid the fastening of her mask.

“Lucy, my love,” he said, raising her and leading her towards Ravenswood, “lay aside your mask, and let us express our gratitude to the Master openly and barefaced.”