“You see that portrait?” the squire went on, pointing wearily with his stick at the head of a young man done in oils.  “The son of my oldest friend—­my dear old friend Merriman.  I never told you of him.  Nine years ago, Desmond—­nine years ago, my old friend was as hale and hearty a man as myself, and George was the apple of his eye.  They were for the king—­God save him!-and when word came that Prince Charles was marching south from Scotland, they arranged secretly with a party of loyal gentlemen to join him.  But I hung back; I had not their courage; I am alive, and I lost my friend.”

His voice sank, and, leaning heavily upon his stick, he gazed vacantly into space.  Desmond was perplexed and still more ill at ease.  What had this to do with the incidents of the night?  He shrank from asking the question.

“Yes, I lost my friend,” the squire continued.  “We had news of the prince; he had left Carlisle; he was moving southwards, about to strike a blow for his father’s throne.  He was approaching Derby.  George Merriman sent a message to his friends, appointing a rendezvous:  gallant gentlemen, they would join the Stuart flag!  The day came, they met, and the minions of the Hanoverian surrounded them.  Betrayed!—­poor, loyal gentlemen, betrayed by one who had their confidence and abused it—­one of my own blood, Desmond—­the shame of it!  They were tried, hanged—­hanged!  It broke my old friend’s heart; he died; ’twas one of my blood that killed him.”

Again speech failed him.  Then, with a sudden change of manner, he said: 

“But ’tis late, boy; your brother keeps early hours.  I am not myself tonight; the memory of the past unnerves me.  Bid me good night, boy.”

Desmond hesitated, biting his lips.  What of the motive of his visit?  He had come to ask advice; could he go without having mentioned the subject that troubled him?  The old man had sunk into a reverie; his lips moved as though he communed with himself.  Desmond had not the heart to intrude his concerns on one so bowed with grief.

“Good night, Sir Willoughby!” he said.

The squire paid no heed, and Desmond, vexed, bewildered, went slowly from the room.

At the outer door he found Dickon awaiting him.

“The squire has let Grinsell go, Dickon,” he said; “he says ’twas all a mistake.”

“If squire says it, then ’t must be,” said Dickon slowly, nodding his head.

“We’n better be goin’ home, sir.”

“But you had something to tell Sir Willoughby?”

“Ay, sure, but he knows it—­knows it better’n me.”

“Come, Dickon, what is this mystery!  I am in a maze; what is it, man?”

“Binna fur a aged, poor feller like me to say.  We’n better go home, sir.”

Nothing that Desmond said prevailed upon Dickon to tell more, and the two started homewards across the fields.

Some minutes afterwards they heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs clattering on the road to their left, and going in the same direction.  It was an unusual sound at that late hour, and both stopped instinctively and looked at each other.