“Britton, the smith, comes for your worship’s orders,” said the servant.
A gloom spread itself over the countenance of Learmont.
“Show him this way,” he said, as he sank into a chair with his back to the light.
“He brings one with him, too, who craves to see your worship.”
“No! No!” cried Learmont, springing to his feet. “’Tis false—false as hell. Has he dared to—to—the villain!—His own destruction is as certain.”
The domestic looked amazed, but before he could make any remark, Britton the smith, accompanied by Jacob Gray, stood on the threshold of the door.
The hand of Learmont was plunged deep beneath the breast of his coat, as he said.
“Well? What—who is that?”
“A friend,” said Britton, in a low voice.
For a moment Learmont regarded the face of the smith with attentive earnestness, and then slowly withdrawing his hand, which had doubtless clasped some weapon of defence, he said to the servant, “Leave the room. Well, Britton; I—I am glad you have come about the—steel gauntlets. Leave the room, I say.”