Here we stayed the night, intending to make an early start, so as to be at Holwick before sunset. An old farmer advised us to go by Thorne rather than by Doncaster, and, taking his advice, we rode over a fairly level road, which in three hours brought us in sight of the former place.
Here we followed a broad, sluggish river, whereon lay many broad-bottomed craft not unlike those we had seen on the inland waters of the Dutch Republic. This river they call the Don. When we left it we crossed another--the Aire--at a place called Snaith.
We were now but a few miles from our destination, and our hopes and fears ran high. At Carleton we left the main road, and after a few miles of a narrow winding lane the gaunt tower of Holwick rose before us.
The village was a straggling one, consisting of a few stone cottages, an indifferent inn, and a small church, its square tower, blackened by fire, a silent witness to a long-forgotten Scottish raid. From its lead-covered summit Old Noll himself had directed the attack upon my father's stronghold.
Poverty, through manorial neglect, was only too apparent, and I could not help exclaiming despondently: "Look, friends! What a heritage, and hardly a scrap of paper to prove my right to it!"
We halted at the old inn, and enquired in a seemingly casual tone whether we could be accommodated there. "For," quoth Felgate to the servile landlord, "we have a desire to know more of this old castle, and methinks that good fishing is obtainable in this stream."
"Eh, my masters," replied he, "'tis not to be beaten in all Yorkshire for good sport--trout, dace, chub, and even the lordly salmon; and as for t'old castle--well, 'tis said that spooks be about. Leastwise I never care to go yonder missen, for strange noises affright the whole countryside!"
"Oh!" I ejaculated. "And is that so?"
"Ay, young sir. With the disappearance of Sir Owen, the owner of Holwick, after the taking of the castle some two-and-twenty years ago by the malignants--and a curse be on 'em all--Sir Owen was last seen fighting his way through the rebel foot. They say he was killed, and his body buried in the dry moat by the rebels; and ever since that time we often hear most fearsome cries and noises."
When we had arranged for a few days' stay, a serving man led our horses away, and we entered the best room of the place. It was an oak-panelled, wainscoted room, with a low, smoke-grimed ceiling that was traversed by a massive beam. The floor was paved with large stones, while an ingle nook and settle imparted a cheerful aspect to the apartment. But what attracted my attention most was a mattock and a couple of spades, with the rich red clay still sticking to them, lying in a corner of the room.