“How now, sirrah? Why this intrusion?”
“An’ it please your worship,” said the man, “there is one below who would have speech of your worship.”
“Speech of me?”
“Ay, truly; an’ it please your—”
“Pshaw!” cried Learmont. “Use fewer words! Who is it that waits to see me?”
“He says he brings a message from the Old Smithy; but I thought, your worship—”
“You thought,” cried Learmont, making two gigantic strides, and seizing the trembling domestic by the throat. “You thought! Wretch! If you dare to think about any of my visitors, I’d give your brains to a dog, and if your tongue but wags of aught you see or hear in this house, I’ll tear it out by the roots!”
“The—the—Lord have—m—mercy upon us!” groaned the servant. “I—I—I’ll never think again, your worship, as long as I—I live!”
“Begone! And show him who asks for me to this room.”
The terrified man made haste from the apartment, and in three or four minutes Britton, the smith, staggered into the room with an air of the most insolent and independent familiarity.