“Aye! Look at me.”
The man took off his hat as he spoke, and stood in the full glare of the flickering fire light.
A dark scowl came over the brow of the smith, and he still continued silent while the man repeated, “Andrew Britton, do you know me?”
“Know you?” cried Britton, with a voice of rage almost goaded to fury. “Yes, I do know you—robber—thief—paltry wretch that had not courage—”
“Hush, Andrew Britton,” said the stranger. “I have travelled many weary miles to visit thee. From the moment that a stranger told me that the clank of your hammer still sounded through the village of Learmont, I guessed how you had been requited. I resolved to seek you, and tell you how to better your condition. I am here with such a purpose. Am I welcome? Or shall I turn from your door in anger, Andrew Britton? Speak at once.”
Owing to the position in which the man stood, the red glare of the smith’s fire fell full upon his working features, and after regarding them attentively for some moments, Britton spoke in a calmer tone than he had used before.
“I think I understand you now,” he said. “Come in—come in.”
“One word before I accept your hospitality,” said the stranger.
“Such conversation as ours,” remarked the smith, “is safest carried on within.”
“But what I have to say is safest said now, and more to the purpose, as I stand here upon your threshold.”