THE POWDER MINE
THE night was dark. The drizzle had increased to a continuous downpour, rendering walking a matter of difficulty, and from the time I left Emsworth till the time I came within sight of my father's home I never met a solitary wayfarer.
It must have been nearly midnight ere the black masses of the castle loomed indistinctly against the darkness, and at the sight of the familiar building my heart throbbed violently.
It was a certain amount of satisfaction to find that the castle had not been reduced to a heap of stone, like many I had seen in various parts of the country; but the question arose in my mind, Did it still belong to the Markhams, or were my people driven out by the rebels?
A solitary light gleamed through the narrow window above the gatehouse, so that I knew that watch and ward was being kept. The drawbridge was raised, and at my feet were the dark waters of the moat.
I shouted, but my voice was lost in the howling of the wind. Groping around, I found a small stone, which I hurled at the door, smiling to myself, in spite of my fears, at the strange method of craving admittance to mine own home.
Instantly the light was extinguished, and a voice shouted:
"Who goes there?"
"A friend," I replied, unwilling to disclose my identity. "I would see Sir Reginald Markham."
There was a short interval, and then torches flared on the battlements, the light falling on steel morions and breastplates. Then the drawbridge fell, and ere I could cross a tall figure advanced to meet me.