Two horsemen were cantering across the Waaste; the night wind bore the fragment of a gay chanson to the doors of Castle Brand. Under the Norman oaks they rode softly over the velvet turf, now snatched from view by the dense hazel coppice, anon seen plainly on the brow of this gentle curve.
Nearer, nearer—home at last to Seven-Oak Waaste. They slackened their pace as they approached, and gazed admiringly at the ancient castle, then observing a lady in the doorway, curved into the court and dismounted.
"Is this St. Udo Brand?" whispered Margaret to the steward.
A tall man had approached to the foot of the granite steps, leaving his companion standing between the pawing horses, holding a bridle of each, and serenely smoking a cigar—a tall man wrapped in a Spanish riding-cloak, who gazed about him with a dark, lowering eye.
"Can't say, Miss Margaret," muttered the steward; "if it is, he's a sight the worse for wear; but I haven't seen him for well nigh onto seven years."
The old man descended stiffly to greet the heir.
"Welcome to the Castle, captain," said he, sourly. "It's well you come at last, you're but just in time to see her alive."
The stranger removed his hat and disclosed a thin, wary face, just now wreathed in courtly smiles.
"I have not the honor to be Captain Brand," he said. "I am merely his messenger."
"What? Heh? Captain Brand didn't come after all?" cried Mr. Purcell, recoiling from the dark, smiling face.