“Ah, Ralph, boy,” he said; “been out?”
“Only on the cliff, father,” cried the lad hastily. “Visitors.”
“Visitors? Nonsense! I expect no visitors. Who are they?”
“Captain Purlrose and his men.”
“Purlrose!” cried Sir Morton, with a look of angry disgust. “Here?”
“Yes, father,” said Ralph, watching keenly the impression made by his words. “Waiting at the foot of the steps.”
“Bah! I thought the drunken, bullying scoundrel was dead and gone years ago. Hung or shot, for he deserved either.”
“Hah!” ejaculated the lad, with a sigh of relief. “Then you are not glad to see him, father?”
“Glad to see him? Are you mad, boy?”
“No, father,” said the lad, with a merry laugh. “I hope not; but he said you would be, and that you were old brothers-in-arms, and that he longed to grip you by the hand; and he tried to hug me, and shed tears, and flattered me, and said all sorts of things.”