"Hm!" grunted Boyd, with a peculiar expression. "He will hardly do that."
They passed thatched barns and low stables. It was now growing murky and dark. The Manor House was next reached, a rambling but dignified structure, built of gray stone and apparently remarkably roomy and comfortable. Gilbert pushed open the thick oaken door and motioned his guest to enter. One or two servants were hurrying along the wainscoted hall, running in and out of a dining-parlor. Andrew appeared from this, and with him an elderly woman, Mistress Janet Annan, the housekeeper, who courtesied to the master and the unexpected guest. Andrew's mother had died in giving birth to her only child.
The hall and aforesaid dining-parlor were brightly lighted. The excellent supper—to which Lord Armitage did ravenous justice, seconded by Andrew—was hurried through in silence; Boyd absorbed in ministering to the wants of his guest. In the Manor it was already rumored that the master had suddenly met an old friend; and this explanation satisfied the present curiosity of the servants' hall.
"To-morrow morning they shall be told the truth," Boyd said reflectively. "They must not be permitted to gossip. They are all loyal-hearted men and women. And now, my lord," he continued, as Lord Geoffry pushed back his chair from the table and exclaimed, "I am quite another man already!" in his refreshment—"now you must to your rest without a moment's loss. To-morrow we can discuss together the means of forwarding you to the sea-coast. Candles, son Andrew! To the Purple Chamber."
Andrew led the way up a staircase of very respectable breadth and ease. The room designated as "the Purple Chamber"—from sundry faded hangings—proved a fair-sized apartment with three casements and a low-studded ceiling. A formidable four-posted bed and accompanying furniture graced it, and a trifle of fire flickered on the hearth. Gilbert locked the door, as Andrew set down the candlesticks on a tall chest of drawers. "Nay, wait my lad," he said, as he turned toward the door, "I have something to impart to both our guests and you."
In some surprise, Andrew returned and leaned against one of the heavy chairs in silence.
"My lord," began Boyd, turning to Armitage, "you spoke a while ago of Danforth searching the very closets—was it?—of Windlestrae Manor, if once his suspicions that it sheltered such refugees as yourself should be stirred. I care not if he do—provided no earthquake and no traitor disclose to him one of them, built in this old rookery long before my father bought it and added to it. Until this day have I preserved one secret of it from you, son, with the rest. There opens from the wall yonder as snug a hiding-hole as any in Scotland."
"A secret chamber!" ejaculated both Boyd's auditors, following the pointing of his hand.
"Ay," replied he, approaching Andrew, with a smile upon his grim features. "The Mouse's Nest—so my father heard it called. I doubt not that it hid many a Jacobite in the first uprising. Andrew, is yonder door locked? Good. Now mark!"
Boyd pushed back the hangings and pressed his hand steadily on the joining of the wainscot at some spot which he identified after an instant's quick scrutiny. To Andrew's intense astonishment, part of the jamb of the chimney-piece slid back into the thickness of the wall. A narrow door-way was revealed leading into darkness.