for the moment at least, to break down the barrier of feudal enmity which divided them.  To express himself churlishly, or even coldly, towards an old man whose daughter (and such a daughter) lay before them, overpowered with natural terror—­and all this under his own roof, the thing was impossible; and by the time that Lucy, extending a hand to each, was able to thank them for their kindness, the Master felt that his sentiments of hostility towards the Lord Keeper were by no means those most predominant in his bosom.

The weather, her state of health, the absence of her attendants, all prevented the possibility of Lucy Ashton renewing her journey to Bittlebrains House, which was full five miles distant; and the Master of Ravenswood could not but, in common courtesy, offer the shelter of his roof for the rest of the day and for the night.  But a flush of less soft expression, a look much more habitual to his features, resumed predominance when he mentioned how meanly he was provided for the entertainment of his guests.

“Do not mention deficiencies,” said the Lord Keeper, eager to interrupt him and prevent his resuming an alarming topic; “you are preparing to set out for the Continent, and your house is probably for the present unfurnished.  All this we understand; but if you mention inconvenience, you will oblige us to seek accommodations in the hamlet.”

As the Master of Ravenswood was about to reply, the door of the hall opened, and Caleb Balderstone rushed in.

CHAPTER XI.

     Let them have meat enough, woman—­half a hen;
     There be old rotten pilchards—­put them off too;
     ’Tis but a little new anointing of them,
     And a strong onion, that confounds the savour.

     Love’s Pilgrimage.

The thunderbolt, which had stunned all who were within hearing of it, had only served to awaken the bold and inventive genius of the flower of majors-domo.  Almost before the clatter had ceased, and while there was yet scarce an assurance whether the castle was standing or falling, Caleb exclaimed, “Heaven be praised! this comes to hand like the boul of a pint-stoup.”  He then barred the kitchen door in the face of the Lord Keeper’s servant, whom he perceived returning from the party at the gate, and muttering, “How the deil cam he in?—­but deil may care.  Mysie, what are ye sitting shaking and greeting in the chimney-neuk for?  Come here—­or stay where ye are, and skirl as loud as ye can; it’s a’ ye’re gude for.  I say, ye auld deevil, skirl—­skirl—­louder—­louder, woman; gar the gentles hear ye in the ha’.  I have heard ye as far off as the Bass for a less matter.  And stay—­down wi’ that crockery——­”

And with a sweeping blow, he threw down from a shelf some articles of pewter and earthenware.  He exalted his voice amid the clatter, shouting and roaring in a manner which changed Mysie’s hysterical terrors of the thunder into fears that her old fellow-servant was gone distracted.  “He has dung down a’ the bits o’ pigs, too—­the only thing we had left to haud a soup milk—­and he has spilt the hatted hit that was for the Master’s dinner.  Mercy save us, the auld man’s gaen clean and clear wud wi’ the thunner!”