“’Tis presuming for thee to speak of knowing her; thou dishonourest the noble plaid thou wearest.  Begone from me, sir, instantly.  Begone, I say!”

“Nay, I shall not begone.  Tell me who thou art, I know thee not!”

“Tell thee?  Nay, ’twould displease my lord if he knew I held converse with thee thus.  He would no doubt send thee from the castle.”

“But who is thy lord, pray?”

“Lord Cedric of Crandlemar!”

“Ah, ah,—­but it does not displease him.  Lord Cedric says thou shalt talk to him the balance of his days.”  The maid shrunk further from him in sheer loathing.  At the moment Janet entered, and the rough Scot turned upon her, and in a voice of command, said,—­

“Who is this maid, woman?” Janet scanned him for a moment and a bit of truth flashed upon her.

“’Tis the honoured daughter of Sir John Penwick,” and she bowed to the floor.

“Ah! ah!!” He retreated in dismay and for a moment was silent, encumbered with emotions of surprise, admiration, wonderment and doubt.  “Then thou art my ward and thou hatest me already—­”

“Thou, thou Lord Cedric, the master of this great house?” And Katherine in the confidence of Janet’s presence, laughed in scorn and swept from the room disdaining his commands to remain longer.  For a moment he stood stunned as it were; then started toward the door and looked after their retreating forms, exclaiming the while,—­

“Ah!—­ah!!  Thou a convent baggage ordering the lord of the castle from thy presence.  Never have I been so talked to before.  Damn me, I love thy gorgeous self, thy beauteous body; thou my ward to have and to hold.  I may if I choose say to thee, thou shalt, or thou shalt not.  Hey, hey, there, Christopher!” He knocked loudly upon the panelling of the door.  A lackey entered trepidated.  “Go and bring in haste from Wasson the letter written by Sir John Penwick.  Haste thee, mind!” He turned to the table as if the shadow of her being still rested there and spoke the continuation of his thought. “’Tis a bit of paper, Mistress Katherine, that has become of more worth than a king’s ransom.  The last will and testament of Sir John Penwick bequeathing to my father a priceless property,—­Thou wert slow, Christopher, but I forgive thee.”  He tore the letter from the lackey’s hands and sat upon the chair drawing the candle to his convenience and read aloud: 

“’Cedric:  When we parted twenty odd years ago ’twas in anger.  I hope thou hast forgotten it as I have.’  My poor father had forgotten and yearned to tell him so.  ’I’m upon my death-bed and my consolation is the remembrance of our mutual faith plighted to each other a short time before our quarrel.  ’Twas the bit of Scotch blood in thee that brought us to contentious wrangle.  I ’minded thee at the time thou wouldst grieve for thy hot words, and ’tis a balm I send thee for thy grieved heart; ’tis my baby Kate’—­Baby, baby of course