He went to bed, but sleep only visited his pillow in uneasy snatches.  Outbreaks of loud speech came up the staircase; he heard the old stones of the castle crack in the frosty night with sharp reverberations, and the bed complained under his tossings.  Lastly, far on into the morning, he awakened from a doze to hear, very far off, in the extreme and breathless quiet, a wailing flourish on the horn.  The down mail was drawing near to the ‘Green Dragon.’  He sat up in bed; the sound was tragical by distance, and the modulation appealed to his ear like human speech.  It seemed to call upon him with a dreary insistence—­to call him far away, to address him personally, and to have a meaning that he failed to seize.  It was thus, at least, in this nodding castle, in a cold, miry woodland, and so far from men and society, that the traffic on the Great North Road spoke to him in the intervals of slumber.

CHAPTER III—­ JONATHAN HOLDAWAY

Nance descended the tower stair, pausing at every step.  She was in no hurry to confront her uncle with bad news, and she must dwell a little longer on the rich note of Mr. Archer’s voice, the charm of his kind words, and the beauty of his manner and person.  But, once at the stair-foot, she threw aside the spell and recovered her sensible and workaday self.

Jonathan was seated in the middle of the settle, a mug of ale beside him, in the attitude of one prepared for trouble; but he did not speak, and suffered her to fetch her supper and eat of it, with a very excellent appetite, in silence.  When she had done, she, too, drew a tankard of home-brewed, and came and planted herself in front of him upon the settle.

‘Well?’ said Jonathan.

‘My lord has run away,’ said Nance.

‘What?’ cried the old man.

‘Abroad,’ she continued; ’run away from creditors.  He said he had not a stiver, but he was drunk enough.  He said you might live on in the castle, and Mr. Archer would pay you; but you was to look for no more wages, since he would be glad of them himself.’

Jonathan’s face contracted; the flush of a black, bilious anger mounted to the roots of his hair; he gave an inarticulate cry, leapt upon his feet, and began rapidly pacing the stone floor.  At first he kept his hands behind his back in a tight knot; then he began to gesticulate as he turned.

‘This man—­this lord,’ he shouted, ’who is he?  He was born with a gold spoon in his mouth, and I with a dirty straw.  He rolled in his coach when he was a baby.  I have dug and toiled and laboured since I was that high—­that high.’  And he shouted again.  ’I’m bent and broke, and full of pains.  D’ ye think I don’t know the taste of sweat?  Many’s the gallon I’ve drunk of it—­ay, in the midwinter, toiling like a slave.  All through, what has my life been?  Bend, bend, bend my old creaking back till it would ache like