‘That was very well for my lord of—­what did’st thou call him, Ned?’

‘Francis Bacon, lord Verulam,’ returned Herbert, with a queer smile.

‘Very well for my lord of Veryflam!’ resumed lady Margaret, with a mock, yet bewitching affectation of innocence and ignorance; ’but tell me had he?—­nay, I am sure he had not a wild Irishwoman sitting breaking her heart in her bower all day long for his company.  He could never else have had the heart to say it.—­Mistress Dorothy,’ she went on, ’take the counsel of a forsaken wife, and lay it to thy heart:  never marry a man who loves lathes and pipes and wheels and water and fire, and I know not what.  But do come in ere bed-time, Herbert, and I will sing thee the sweetest of English ditties, and make thee such a sack-posset as never could be made out of old Ireland any more than the song.’

But her husband that moment sprang from her side, and shouting ‘Caspar!  Caspar!’ bounded to the furnace, reached up with his iron rod into the darkness over his head, caught something with the hooked end of it, and pulled hard.  A man who from somewhere in the gloomy place had responded like a greyhound to his master’s call, did the like on the other side.  Instantly followed a fierce, protracted, sustained hiss, and in a moment the place was filled with a white cloud, whence issued still the hideous hiss, changing at length to a roar.  Lady Margaret turned in terror, ran out of the keep, and fled across the bridge and through the archway before she slackened her pace.  Dorothy followed, but more composedly, led by duty, not driven by terror, and indeed reluctantly forsaking a spot where was so much she did not understand.

They had fled from the infant roar of the ‘first stock-father’ of steam-engines, whose cradle was that feudal keep, eight centuries old.

That night Dorothy lay down weary enough.  It seemed a month since she had been in her own bed at Wyfern, so many new and strange things had crowded into her house, hitherto so still.  Every now and then the darkness heaved and rippled with some noise of the night.  The stamping of horses, and the ringing of their halter chains, seemed very near her.  She thought she heard the howl of Marquis from afar, and said to herself, ’The poor fellow cannot sleep!  I must get my lord to let me have him in my chamber.’  Then she listened a while to the sweet flow of the water from the mouth of the white horse, which in general went on all night long.  Suddenly came an awful sound—­like a howl also, but such as never left the throat of dog.  Again and again at intervals it came, with others like it but not the same, torturing the dark with a dismal fear.  Dorothy had never heard the cry of a wild beast, but the suggestion that these might be such cries, and the recollection that she had heard such beasts were in Raglan Castle, came together to her mind.  She was so weary, however, that worse noises than these could hardly have kept her awake; not even her weariness could prevent them from following her into her dreams.