“Gibson,” continued his master, “where is Gillespie?  Send him to me.”

“Gillespie’s gone into Ballytrain, sir, to get one of the horses fired.”

“Gibson, you are a good and faithful servant.  Go to my bedroom and fetch me my pistols.”

“My God, Sir Thomas! oh, sir, for heaven’s sake, avoid violence!  The expression of your face, Sir Thomas, makes me tremble.”

Sir Thomas spoke not, but by one look Gibson felt that he must obey him.  On returning with the arms, his master took them out of his hands, opened the pans, shook and stirred the powder, examined the flints, saw that they were sharp and firm, and having done so, he opened a drawer in the table at which he usually wrote, and there placed them at full cock.  Gibson could perceive that, although unnaturally calm, he was nevertheless in a state of great agitation; for whilst examining the pistols, he observed that his hand trembled, although his voice was low, condensed, and firm.

“For God’s sake, Sir Thomas! for the Almighty God’s sake—­”

“Go, Gibson, and desire the ‘gentleman’ to walk up—­show him the way.”

Sir Thomas’s mind was, no doubt, in a tumult; but, at the same time, it was the agitation of a man without courage.  After Gibson had left the room, he grew absolutely nervous, both in mind and body, and felt as if he were unequal to the conflict that he expected.  On hearing the firm, manly tread of the stranger, his heart sank, and a considerable portion of his violence abandoned him, though not the ungenerous purpose which the result of their interview might possibly render necessary.  At all events, he felt that he was about to meet the stranger in a much more subdued spirit than he had expected; simply because, not being naturally a brave or a firm man, his courage, and consequently his resentment, cooled in proportion as the distance between them diminished.

Sir Thomas was standing with his back to the fire as the stranger entered.  The manner of the latter was cool, but cautious, and his bow that of a perfect gentleman.  The baronet, surprised into more than he had intended, bowed haughtily in return—­a mark of respect which it was not his intention to have paid him.

“I presume, sir,” said he, “that I understand the object of this visit?”

“You and I, Sir Thomas Gourlay,” replied the stranger, “have had one interview already—­and but one; and I am not aware that anything occurred then between us that could enable you to account for my presence here.”

“Well, sir, perhaps so,” replied the baronet, with a sneer; “but to what may I attribute the honor of that distinguished presence?”

“I come, Sir Thomas Gourlay, to seek for an explanation on a subject of the deepest importance to the party under whose wishes and instructions I act.”

“That party, sir,” replied the baronet, who alluded to his daughter, “has forfeited every right to give you instructions on that, or any other subject where I am concerned.  And, indeed, to speak candidly, I hardly know whether more to admire her utter want of all shame in deputing you on such a mission, or your own immeasurable effrontery in undertaking it.”