The urbane young baron alighting, assisted Annette to mount his noble steed, who, though overwhelmed by his kindness, refused to listen to all the consolation, or banterings, with which he endeavoured to cheer her on her way to Castle Mortimer, choosing rather to believe that some dreadful accident had befallen her lover, than that carelessness, or perfidy, caused his absence.  Dame Trueby’s account was little calculated to soothe Annette’s anxiety, or to satisfy Lord Mortimer respecting Elliott’s proceedings.

“I have not seen Charles,” said she, “since early this morning, when I heard him say he was going to feed the hounds, poor creatures! and time enough that he did, I think, considering that he left them without a morsel for a whole day and night, whilst he was capering away at Woodcroft Feast; and then,—­the beast!—­what does he, but comes back so dead drunk that we were forced to carry him up to bed; meanwhile, the hungry brutes, poor dumb souls, just ready to eat one another, have been fit to raise the very dead with their barking, and ramping, and yowling!”

“A sad account is this, Margery.”

“A very true one, please your lordship,” replied the old housekeeper, testily.

“I don’t doubt it,” returned Lord Mortimer, “but cannot at this time of night, dame, with Charles absent, and this young woman, his intended wife, wanting some refreshment and a bed (for which indeed I have ample need myself), make any inquiry into the affair.  Let Elliott call me in the morning instead of More, do you meanwhile make this young woman as comfortable as you can, and recollect, Mrs. Trueby, that she is come to the Castle upon a visit to you.”

Margery curtseyed, and “yessed,” and “very welled,” with apparent submission, but though she dared not express her thoughts, it was easy to read in her ample countenance, sad suspicions relative to the honour of her noble master, and of the forlorn damsel thus thrust upon her peculiar hospitality.  “And,” continued Lord Mortimer, “Charles, you are sure, fed the dogs this morning?”

“Don’t know, my lord, I’m sure,” replied the old housekeeper, doggedly, “I suppose he did, and belike beat ’em too; I only know they’ve been quiet all day, which, it stands to reason, they wouldn’t have been without wittals; but Master Elliott, I’ve not seen since.”

“Not since early this morning, and ’tis now midnight!  Where can he be?”

“The Lord knows, sir! after no good I doubt, for he’s a wild lad, and these fairs and dances, fairly turn his brain.”