“You dare!” cried the leader; “and pray, who may you be, my bully boy?”
“I don’t tell my name to every ragged fellow I meet in the road,” said the boy haughtily.
“What!” roared the man, clapping his hand upon the hilt of his blade, an action imitated by his followers.
“Keep your sword in its scabbard,” said Ralph, without wincing in the least. “If you have business with my father, this way.”
He sprang to his feet now, and gazed fiercely at the stranger.
“What?” cried the man, in a voice full of exuberant friendliness, which made the lad shrink in disgust, “you the son of Sir Morton Darley?”
“Yes: what of it?”
“The son of my beloved old companion-in-arms? Boy, let me embrace thee.”
To Ralph’s horror, the man took a step forward, and would have thrown his arms about his neck; but by a quick movement the lad stepped back, and the men laughed to see their leader grasp the wind.
“Don’t do that,” said Ralph sternly. “Do you mean to say that you want to speak to my father?”