CHAPTER X.
THE SHADOWS DARKEN.
In the library of Castle Redfyrne sat Sir John, the present lord of that ancient manor, at a writing table placed in the embrasure of a gothic window, whence he could look over the broad acres he had made his own.
In the shelves were ranged many printed books and curious manuscripts, in part the plunder of Glastonbury Abbey; and in truth never was typography clearer, or more beautiful than in the first century of its existence; nor on the other hand was caligraphy, as exemplified in ancient missals and breviaries, ever more a work of art than when about to be superseded by the printing press.
But Sir John was not thinking of these things, his evil heart was full of bitterness.
There is an old Spanish proverb,—“The man who has injured thee, will never forgive thee.” Sir John had injured his brother’s child, deeply, cruelly, and he could not forgive him.
He rose from the table and paced the room; his brow was knit; oft times he gnashed his teeth. So we are told that his namesake, king John, would roll on the floor and bite the straw which served in his royal palace as carpet, in his maniacal fits of passion. With his name, a double portion of his spirit had fallen upon the hapless Redfyrne of our tale.
The whole of that scene at Exeter was before his mind as he strode to and fro, painted by the vivid pencil of a too faithful memory.