“I am sorry for it, my lord,” said the Master.

“Nay, nay,” retorted his guest, “you speak like a young counsellor; your spirit goes before your wit.  There are many things still open for decision betwixt us.  Can you blame me, an old man desirous of peace, and in the castle of a young nobleman who has saved my daughter’s life and my own, that I am desirous, anxiously desirous, that these should be settled on the most liberal principles?” The old man kept fast hold of the Master’s passive hand as he spoke, and made it impossible for him, be his predetermination what it would, to return any other than an acquiescent reply; and wishing his guest good-night, he postponed farther conference until the next morning.

Ravenswood hurried into the hall, where he was to spend the night, and for a time traversed its pavement with a disordered and rapid pace.  His mortal foe was under his roof, yet his sentiments towards him were neither those of a feudal enemy nor of a true Christian.  He felt as if he could neither forgive him in the one character, nor follow forth his vengeance in the other, but that he was making a base and dishonourable composition betwixt his resentment against the father and his affection for his daughter.  He cursed himself, as he hurried to and fro in the pale moonlight, and more ruddy gleams of the expiring wood-fire.  He threw open and shut the latticed windows with violence, as if alike impatient of the admission and exclusion of free air.  At length, however, the torrent of passion foamed off its madness, and he flung himself into the chair which he proposed as his place of repose for the night.

“If, in reality,” such were the calmer thoughts that followed the first tempest of his passion—­“if, in reality, this man desires no more than the law allows him—­if he is willing to adjust even his acknowledged rights upon an equitable footing, what could be my father’s cause of complaint?—­what is mine?  Those from who we won our ancient possessions fell under the sword of my ancestors, and left lands and livings to the conquerors; we sink under the force of the law, now too powerful for the Scottish cavalry.  Let us parley with the victors of the day, as if we had been besieged in our fortress, and without hope of relief.  This man may be other than I have thought him; and his daughter—­but I have resolved not to think of her.”

He wrapt his cloak around him, fell asleep, and dreamed of Lucy Ashton till daylight gleamed through the lattices.

CHAPTER XV.

     We worldly men, when we see friends and kinsmen
     Past hope sunk in their fortunes, lend no hand
     To lift them up, but rather set our feet
     Upon their heads to press them to the bottom,
     As I must yield with you I practised it;
     But now I see you in a way to rise,
     I can and will assist you.

     New Way to Pay Old Debts.