The trees grew very closely together at this point, so closely, indeed, that it seemed impossible to force a path between them. But Stephen knew the track and could almost have found it blindfold, and after about a quarter of an hour more of difficult walking he came upon an open space of grassy mounds, crowned by the ruins of an ancient hunting tower, dating back to a very early period, of which, however, little more than four stout ivy-hung walls, and a portion of a low battlemented tower remained. The ruin was not large enough to be imposing, nor had it any known historical interest. Very few people knew of its existence, as it was not discernible over the tops of the tall trees by which it was surrounded; yet that it was known to at least one person was evident now, for from the ruined tower a thin blue line of smoke rose into the clear evening air.
No way of entering the ruin was visible, the base of the tower and of the low building attached to it being blocked up by rubble, by overgrown bushes, and by fallen masonry. But Stephen Lee made straight for a portion of the ruin heavily veiled with ivy, and removing this with one hand, he came upon a low archway of stonework completely blocked by a solid wooden door. Upon this he tapped with the handle of a knife he carried in his belt, and softly whistled. The signal was answered, and the sound of a rusty bolt being withdrawn was the prelude to the apparition of old Sarah Carewe’s face in the doorway.
Entering, Stephen found himself in an improvised chamber formed partly by the tower and partly by roughly hewn timber roofing to the adjacent walls. Dry leaves thickly covered the ground, and on a heap of them in front of the fire the brawny figure of a man in the prime of life was stretched, revelling in the smoky warmth of a fire of peat and sticks.
An oil lamp, hanging from the roof, lit up the scene, which was not wanting in elements of the picturesque. By its feeble illumination, assisted by the firelight, a few pieces of extempore furniture could be discerned, such as a wooden table, two or three stools, an iron pot, and some other cooking utensils, and in the far corner a long, shallow box of wood, upon which some rags and rugs were stretched to form a not unacceptable couch for such as needed not luxury to induce slumber.
To Stephen all these details were familiar, as was the bent and shrunken form of his great-grandmother, Sarah Carewe, of whom he stood in some considerable awe. In her seventy-ninth year, Mrs. Carewe might well have lived through the century with which she was popularly credited; her energy was boundless, and her brain as keen and cunning as when, nearly sixty years before, she had become the proud mother of Hiram Carewe, shot down by Sir Philip Cranstoun’s hand on that memorable evening eighteen and a half years ago.
“Baish down, lad,” she said, pointing to a stool by the fire. “Uncle Jim and me have been looking for you for the past two hours. What’s the news up at the house?”
He drew the token from his pocket and laid it in her hand.
“This,” he said. “She is a prisoner, as you know, and she threw it me from her room window. The lord was there to-day at the burying. They’re driving her close to marry him, curse him! He’s as ugly as a monkey, and I could throttle him with one hand.”
“Her fancy is a lot handsomer,” laughed the old crone. “I don’t blame Clare’s girl for fixing on a good-looking man.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, half-fearfully, half-savagely, pausing in the act of knocking the ashes out of a pipe he had taken from his pocket.