“And what the better shall I be of that?—­dead men make no porridge hot,” simply retorted Dan.

“Go to,” replied the other; “it’s but setting Maude on the scent—­I warrant thee, she’ll sharpen her wits for the work.  It will be a grievous pity should he depart, and whisper not his message to her ladyship.  Maude’s thin ears, as thou knowest, can catch a whisper, and thou wilt soon squeeze the secret out of her; then comes Darby’s turn—­by to-morrow, at the latest.”

The news-doting artisan rubbed his dark fists with ecstacy.  “Go, knave,” said he; “thou art a teasing little varlet.”

Here Grim seemed ready to hug his comrade in the extremity of his delight; but Dan was rather sullen, evidently ruminating on peril and mischance, wherein the tempter had no share, though participating in the profits of the adventure.  Eventually, the stranger was placed under the patronage of Daniel Hardseg, who, to do him justice, was well affected towards the enterprise he had undertaken.

Passing by a low wall to the north-east of the mansion, they were soon hidden by a projecting terrace or platform, which, in cases of siege, could be converted into a sort of breastwork to cover the sallies of the besieged.  At the salient angle of this curtain stood a small postern, to which Dan applied a heavy key, and beckoning to his companion, they ascended a narrow staircase.  A succession of dark passages led to the great hall, from which a small arched doorway communicated by a private entrance to the chapel.  As they passed the half-closed door, a gruff voice was heard reciting the appointed service for the day.  Dan slept cautiously by, and motioned the stranger to tread softly.  The latter paused, listening with a look of anxiety, and pressed his staff across his bosom;—­soon, drawing his hood closer over his brow, he quickly followed the retreating footsteps of his companion.

“Praised be old Cliderhow’s tough pipe!” said Dan, when fairly out of hearing.  “Ha, ha!—­sit down, sit down, good father,” opening a half-door, as he laughed, and thrusting in the pilgrim; “nobody can hear aught besides, when he’s fairly agoing.”

The apartment into which this unceremonious conductor ushered his guest was Dan’s store-room.

A most whimsical assemblage of materials were here huddled together.  Pans, wooden bowls, and matters of meaner import, entered into close familiarity with broadswords and helmets; boots of home manufacture in their primitive clothing; saddles with their housings; knives, and brown bottles of coarse pottery, were intermingled with many a grim-looking weapon of bloodthirsty aspect.  From the walls depended a heterogeneous mass of apparel—­cloaks, hats, and body-gear of unimaginable shape and appearance.  Dan was steward of the wardrobe, or furniture-keeper to most of the retainers and other idle appendages to the hall; and as, in those days, the sciences dependent on order and classification had not spread their beneficial