“There is the village, my Prince, and there is the Hall close by!  You may see the towers from here; and that wood there—­that is my father’s park.  Ah, now thou’lt know what state and grandeur be!  A house with seventy rooms—­think of that!—­and seven and twenty servants!  A brave lodging for such as we, is it not so?  Come, let us speed—­my impatience will not brook further delay.”

All possible hurry was made; still, it was after three o’clock before the village was reached.  The travellers scampered through it, Hendon’s tongue going all the time.  “Here is the church—­covered with the same ivy—­none gone, none added.”  “Yonder is the inn, the old Red Lion,—­and yonder is the market-place.”  “Here is the Maypole, and here the pump —­nothing is altered; nothing but the people, at any rate; ten years make a change in people; some of these I seem to know, but none know me.”  So his chat ran on.  The end of the village was soon reached; then the travellers struck into a crooked, narrow road, walled in with tall hedges, and hurried briskly along it for half a mile, then passed into a vast flower garden through an imposing gateway, whose huge stone pillars bore sculptured armorial devices.  A noble mansion was before them.

“Welcome to Hendon Hall, my King!” exclaimed Miles.  “Ah, ’tis a great day!  My father and my brother, and the Lady Edith will be so mad with joy that they will have eyes and tongue for none but me in the first transports of the meeting, and so thou’lt seem but coldly welcomed—­but mind it not; ’twill soon seem otherwise; for when I say thou art my ward, and tell them how costly is my love for thee, thou’lt see them take thee to their breasts for Miles Hendon’s sake, and make their house and hearts thy home for ever after!”

The next moment Hendon sprang to the ground before the great door, helped the King down, then took him by the hand and rushed within.  A few steps brought him to a spacious apartment; he entered, seated the King with more hurry than ceremony, then ran toward a young man who sat at a writing-table in front of a generous fire of logs.

“Embrace me, Hugh,” he cried, “and say thou’rt glad I am come again! and call our father, for home is not home till I shall touch his hand, and see his face, and hear his voice once more!”

But Hugh only drew back, after betraying a momentary surprise, and bent a grave stare upon the intruder—­a stare which indicated somewhat of offended dignity, at first, then changed, in response to some inward thought or purpose, to an expression of marvelling curiosity, mixed with a real or assumed compassion.  Presently he said, in a mild voice—­

“Thy wits seem touched, poor stranger; doubtless thou hast suffered privations and rude buffetings at the world’s hands; thy looks and dress betoken it.  Whom dost thou take me to be?”

“Take thee?  Prithee for whom else than whom thou art?  I take thee to be Hugh Hendon,” said Miles, sharply.