“Cedric!” I shouted again, “’tis Cedric of Mountjoy,—none other.”
Then my father found voice. ’Twas a low, weak tone—one scarce to be heard indeed:
“This is a judgment on me for my hardness. Cedric was right indeed. I see it clearly now that ’tis our own old Marvin whose rights were trampled on by those who called him churl and varlet. And what a battle the lad did make! And how he fell—like a prince of the blood beset by ruffians! Oh! Did he live to speak any words of farewell—to leave any message with Marvin or any other?”
“I know not, my lord,” replied the old serving man, “when I left Morton Hall this morning, ’twas said that he still breathed, but that he could scarcely last the day.”
My father started up and gave a furious pull to the bell cord. The clangor thus provoked sent the chief of our serving men hurrying in.
“Tell the grooms to saddle Cæsar,” shouted Lord Mountjoy, “and call Broderick and say that he and six armed and mounted men are to attend me. I ride at once to Morton.”
“And I also,” I cried, “Galvin, tell the grooms to make ready the black mare that I rode yesterday.”
“And my horse also,” shrilled my mother, the instant I was done. “I, too, will ride to Morton.”
’Twas fifteen leagues to Morton Hall; and much of the road was rough and wild, with many a stony hill to climb and many a stream to ford. The half of the journey we made by the light of the great round harvest moon that sent its silvered rays near level through the forest. Hard we rode, indeed, and with little mercy on our mounts; and ’twas scarce four hours after we left Mountjoy when, piloted by the old Morton serving man, we dismounted before the door of Gilbert’s cottage.
