“There he is now, on the terrace, taking his evening walk. I mustn’t go any farther with you; but when you pass the two large oaks yonder, you’ll see the great entrance, ring the bell, and some one will come to you.”
O’Rorke went on his way, but had not gone far when he was overtaken by a servant in livery, who, bare-headed and almost breathless from running, demanded angrily “What he was doing there?”
“I have a letter for your master that I wish to deliver at once,” replied he, firmly.
“Give it here, and wait for your answer round there, by the stables.”
“No such thing, my smart fellow; I am to deliver my letter into your master’s hand, and I will give it to no other.”
“You’re more likely, then, to take it back with you,” said the other, jeeringly, and turned away.
“Tell your master that my letter comes from Ireland,” cried O’Rorke after him, “and that it is one won’t brook delay.” But whether the fellow heard him or not, he could not say.
In less time, however, than he believed it possible for the man to have given his message, came a demure-looking man in black from the castle, who beckoned him to come forward.
“Are you the bearer of a letter from Ireland?” asked he.
“Yes. It is to be given to Sir Within Wardle’s own hand.”