He glared with supreme and savage scorn on the tatterdemalion stranger, and uttered his talismanic words,—
"Andarty al devillio!"
Morton changed his tactics; and, looking fixedly at the human mastiff, said in English,—
"Go to your master, sir, and tell him that I wish to speak with him."
The Saxon words and the tone of authority coming from one whom he had taken for a vagrant beggar, astonished the old man beyond utterance. He stared for a moment,—turned to obey,—then turned back again,—
"Mr. Wentworth is at breakfast, sir."
The last monosyllable was spoken in a doubtful tone, the speaker being perplexed between respect for the tone and language of the stranger, and contempt for his vagabond attire.
"Then bring me pen, ink, and paper—I will write to him."
And pushing past the servant, he seated himself on a chair in the hall.
John went for the articles required, first glancing around to see what items of plunder might be within the intruder's reach. Morton in his absence opened several books which lay upon a table; and in one of them he saw, pencilled on the fly leaf, the name of the owner, Robert Wentworth.