'What is all this commotion about? Who demands admission? Open the gate, and let us see.'
'Open the gate, Master, yourself,' was the rough reply, 'and let in a parcel of murderers or thieves, for all I care. You're welcome.'
'Hold your tongue, you knave,' Humphrey said; 'you are half-drunk now, I warrant,' and Humphrey, going to the grating, asked,—
'Who craves admission at this hour of the night?'
'An it please you, Master, it is near cock-crow,' was the answer, 'and day is breaking. I have ill news for Master Humphrey Ratcliffe, and must deliver my message to his ear.'
'Ill news!' Humphrey repeated the words. His thoughts went first to his mother, and then he remembered that she was safe in lodgings with Dorothy and George.
'I am one, Ned Barton, cowherd to one Mistress Forrester. I've trudged many a mile at the bidding of Mistress Gifford, who is in a sore plight.'
Humphrey did not hesitate now, he drew back the heavy bolts, and turned the huge, rusty key in the lock, and threw open one side of the gate.
'Come in,' he said, 'and deliver your message.'
Ned, in his coarse smock, which was much travel-stained and worn, pulled the lock of red hair which shadowed his forehead, in token of respect, and shambled into the hall.