When the last guest had gone, two of Holtspur’s improvised grooms—for whose services there was no further occasion—also took their departure from the place. There remained only three individuals in the old mansion—its owner, his Indian attendant, and Gregory Garth.
Of these, the last mentioned, and only he, had yielded his spirit to the embrace of the drowsy god.
On perceiving that his services as stable-helper were no longer in requisition, the ex-footpad,—having no other lodging to which he might betake himself,—had stretched his tired limbs along the beechwood bench; which, as on a former occasion, he had drawn up close to the kitchen fire. In five minutes after, not only the ample kitchen itself, but the contiguous apartments of pantry and wash-house,—with the various passages between,—were resonant of his snores.
Holtspur was still in the apartment in which the meeting had been held—the library it was—where, seated in front of a writing table, with pen in hand, he appeared to busy himself in the composition of some document of more than ordinary importance.
Oriole was the only one of the household who seemed to have no occupation: since he was neither sleeping, nor acting.
He was not inside the house, nor yet outside, but part of both: since he stood in the doorway, on the top step of the front entrance,—the door being still open.
He was in his habitual attitude of perfect repose,—silent and statuesque. This he had maintained for some length of time—having lingered, vaguely gazing after the last guest who had gone away—or, rather, the two woodmen, Walford and Dancey: for they had been the latest to take their departure.
It is difficult to say what may have been occupying the thoughts of the young savage. Perhaps they were dwelling upon scenes of the past—memories of his forest home, thousands of miles away—memories of his early years—of his tawny companions, and their sports—memories, perhaps more tender, of sister or mother? Whether or no, they stirred him not from his silent attitude; and for a long half hour he remained motionless, wrapped in speechless reverie.
It was only on seeing the first streaks of the dawn, stealing over the beech-clad crests of the hills, that he began to arouse himself; and then only in his eyes were exhibited signs of activity.
These, instead of being directed towards the sky, were turned towards the ground—scrutinising a space in front of the door-step, where the close crowding of hoof-prints told of the many horsemen who had late made their departure from the place.