“That’s right, Ralph; there are people as much as twenty miles away—twelve men? Five-and-twenty, I’ll be bound.”
“Well, I’ll think about it,” said Sir Morton; and when Master Rayburn walked home that day, Ralph bore him company part of the way, and chatted the matter over with him.
“I’m getting ashamed of your father, Ralph, lad. He has plenty of weapons of war, and he could arm a strong party, and yet he does nothing.”
“I wish he would,” said the lad. “I don’t like the idea of fighting, but I should like to see those rascals taken.”
“But you will not until your father is stirred up by their coming and making an attack upon your place.”
“Oh, they would not dare to do that,” cried Ralph.
“What! why, they are growing more daring day by day; and mark my words, sooner or later they’ll make a dash at the Castle, and plunder the place.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Ralph, as he thought of his sister.
“I wish they would,” cried the old man angrily, “for I am sick of seeing such a state of things in our beautiful vales. No one is safe. It was bad enough before, with the petty contemptible jealousies of your two families, and the fightings between your men. But that was peace compared to what is going on now.”
“Don’t talk like that, Master Rayburn,” said Ralph warmly. “I don’t like you to allude to my father as you do.”