“Hope deferred” was just on the point of being attended with the usual consequences, when, taking another peep through a crevice, constructed for putting into effect a more efficient system of examination, he beheld a phenomenon as unlooked for as it was incomprehensible.  He rubbed his eyes, strongly persuaded that some rigorous discipline was necessary.  He pinched his fingers, shook himself—­was he really awake? or—­he took another peep, still it was there; nor crossings, ejaculations, nor other established contrivances had any effect.  The vision that caused all this disturbance was the great banner of the Bradshaigh on the tower, curling full and stately in the breeze.  Wonders and misfortunes rarely come unattended.  Grim’s appetite for the marvellous was now in danger of suffering as much from repletion as before from inanity, and he had just summoned his dame for a special council, when his ears were assailed by a furious ding-dong.  Stroke upon stroke, huge, heavy, and unceasing, followed each other in rapid succession.  It was the great bell, used only on occasions of emergency and importance, the hoarse tongue of which had been silent since the day of Sir William’s departure.  There was no time to waste in conjecture.  Grim rushed from his dwelling.  Convinced that some catastrophe was at hand, his intention was to climb the hill behind his little hovel, in order to reconnoitre the premises with greater facility.  Sallying forth, he saw numbers of the peasantry on the same errand.  All was bustle and inquiry; each giving his neighbour credit for the possession of some intelligence whereby the mystery might be unravelled.

“Sir William cannot have returned!” said one.

“No,” replied another, “or the buck would soon butt the Welshman out of his stall.”

“Ha, ha!” said a neighbouring gossip, “those horns are big enough,” pointing to the device upon the banner—­a buck passant.

As they drew nearer to the great gate the bell had ceased, when suddenly appeared, perched on a corner of the tower, the well-known form of “Daft Humpy.”  He threw up his cap, caught it, and whirled it round his head with every demonstration of joyous extravagance.  “Hurrah!” shouted he, with a distinct and shrill enunciation, which might be heard to the very extremities of the crowd.  “Hurrah for Sir William Bradshaigh!—­he is come again!—­hurrah, neighbours!—­in, in!”

He ran round the battlements with unceasing vociferation.  On hearing this news, numbers entered the gate pell-mell, carrying with them some who would fain have acted with more discretion, by watching the issue warily and out of harm’s way.  Of this class was our stout-fisted friend Darby Grim, who, though of a well-composed valour when fairly tested, was yet slow to move, and cared not to thrust his fingers uselessly into a broil.

The first party that entered was met by Humphry.

“Pick-axes and spades!” cried he, flourishing a stout staff.  “To the dungeon!—­come along, come along!” So far from accelerating their speed, this address seemed at once to suspend all further progress.  They gazed at each other; none wist what to do, naturally not overburdened with confidence in the discretion of their guide.  Suddenly checking himself, he stood as erect as the nature of his form would admit, before the astonished auditors.