With some reluctance she accepted the bugle from the hand of the earl, who briefly instructed her—Beatrice being not very well versed in the Ravengar traditions—as to the form of words to be used in this ceremony.
The rattle of wheels was now heard coming along the avenue of chestnuts, and amid murmurs of "Here he is!" from those assembled at the porch, a brougham rolled up. When it had stopped, there alighted a figure, fair, slight, and, though youthful, of decidedly blasé appearance. He was dressed in a light travelling ulster, and held a cigar between his fingers, throwing it away, however, as soon as he beheld the company.
"Welcome, Ivar," said the earl, warmly returning the clasp of his son's hand: and then, waving him towards Beatrice, he continued, "But one moment: we must not neglect the ancient custom of our house. Now, Beatrice, you know the words."
And Beatrice, holding aloft the horn of wine, in an attitude that displayed all the grace of her figure, approached the young viscount.
"Is it peace, O heir of Ravenhall?"
"It is peace, O lady fair," replied the viscount, using the words of the traditional formula.
"Then drink of thine own, O heir of Ravenhall," continued Beatrice, extending the bugle to him.
"To the souls of the departed warriors," replied Ivar, tossing off the contents at one draught. "Hum! port. Very good liquor for boys; but, I confess, I like my aliquid amari stronger."
This last sentence formed no part of the Ravengar ritual, and the earl, who liked everything en régle, frowned slightly.
"Now prove thy title, heir of Ravenhall."