Now I tried to think this as I said it, so as to save it from being a lie; but somehow or other it did not answer, and I was vexed with myself both ways.  But Lorna took me by the hand as bravely as she could, and led me into a little passage where I could hear the river moaning and the branches rustling.

Here I passed as long a minute as fear ever cheated time of, saying to myself continually that there was nothing to be frightened at, yet growing more and more afraid by reason of so reasoning.  At last my Lorna came back very pale, as I saw by the candle she carried, and whispered, “Now be patient, dearest.  Never mind what he says to you; neither attempt to answer him.  Look at him gently and steadfastly, and, if you can, with some show of reverence; but above all things, no compassion; it drives him almost mad.  Now come; walk very quietly.”

She led me into a cold, dark room, rough and very gloomy, although with two candles burning.  I took little heed of the things in it, though I marked that the window was open.  That which I heeded was an old man, very stern and comely, with death upon his countenance; yet not lying in his bed, but set upright in a chair, with a loose red cloak thrown over him.  Upon this his white hair fell, and his pallid fingers lay in a ghastly fashion without a sign of life or movement or of the power that kept him up; all rigid, calm, and relentless.  Only in his great black eyes, fixed upon me solemnly, all the power of his body dwelt, all the life of his soul was burning.

I could not look at him very nicely, being afeared of the death in his face, and most afeared to show it.  And to tell the truth, my poor blue eyes fell away from the blackness of his, as if it had been my coffin-plate.  Therefore I made a low obeisance, and tried not to shiver.  Only I groaned that Lorna thought it good manners to leave us two together.

“Ah,” said the old man, and his voice seemed to come from a cavern of skeletons; “are you that great John Ridd?”

“John Ridd is my name, your honour,” was all that I could answer; “and I hope your worship is better.”

“Child, have you sense enough to know what you have been doing?”

“Yes, I knew right well,” I answered, “that I have set mine eyes far above my rank.”

“Are you ignorant that Lorna Doone is born of the oldest families remaining in North Europe?”

“I was ignorant of that, your worship; yet I knew of her high descent from the Doones of Bagworthy.”

The old man’s eyes, like fire, probed me whether I was jesting; then perceiving how grave I was, and thinking that I could not laugh (as many people suppose of me), he took on himself to make good the deficiency with a very bitter smile.

“And know you of your own low descent from the Ridds of Oare?”

“Sir,” I answered, being as yet unaccustomed to this style of speech, “the Ridds, of Oare, have been honest men twice as long as the Doones have been rogues.”