“Well, not much, only I should like to know the title of so very amiable a person.”
The other condescended to no reply, but walked his horse towards the gate.
“Here, fellow!” he cried, addressing Tim. “Open this gate for me!”
“Don’t stir!” said his master. “Let our amiable friend open the gate for himself.”
With an angry exclamation, the rider leapt from his saddle, and still holding the horse’s reins, threw the gate wide open. Then, still leading his horse, he strode over towards the young man, who, looking up, saw that he was nearly six feet high, and very powerfully built, “My name is Monk, of Monkshurst,” he said. “I’ve a good mind to teach you to remember it.”
“Don’t be afraid,” was the reply. “Monk, of Monkshurst? I shall be certain not to forget it, Mr. Monk, of Monkshurst!—Tim, is the water boiling?”
For a moment Mr. Monk, as he called himself, seemed, ready to draw his ridingwhip across the young man’s face; but, conquering himself, he surveyed him from head to foot with savage anger. Nothing daunted, the young man returned his stare with something very like supreme contempt. At last, muttering beneath his breath, Mr. Monk turned away, and leading his horse into the avenue, closed the gate, and remounted; but even then he did not immediately depart, but remained for some minutes, seated in the saddle, scowling over at the encampment.
Thus occupied, his face and figure set in the gloomy framework of the trees, he looked even more forbidding than before.’ His face, though naturally handsome, was dark with tempestuous passions, his eyes deep-set and fierce, his clean-shaven jaw square and determined. For the rest, his black hair, which was thickly mixed with iron-grey, fell almost to his shoulders, and his upper lip was covered with an iron-grey moustache.
At last, as if satisfied with his scrutiny, Mr. Monk turned his horse round with a fierce jerk of the rein, and rode rapidly away in the shadow of the wood.