Ralph was turning back into the room, and bolting the outer door, when the landlord entered hurriedly from the passage. He was excited.
“Is it not—captain, tell me—is it not Wy'bern—your father's home—Wy'bern, on Bracken Mere?”
“It was my father's home—why?”
“Then the bloodhounds are on your trail!”
The perspiration was standing in beads on Brown's forehead.
“They talk of nothing to each other but of a game that's coming on at Wy'bern, and what they'll do for some one that they never name. If they'd but let wit who he is I'd—I'd know them.”
“Landlord, landlord!” cried a man whose uncertain footsteps could be heard in the passage,—“landlord, bring your two guests to us—bring them for a glass.”
The fellow was making his way to the room into which Ralph and Sim had been hustled. The landlord slid out of it through the smallest aperture between the door and its frame that could discharge a man of his sturdy physique. When the door closed behind him he could be heard to protest against any intention of disturbing his visitors. The two gentlemen had made a long journey, travelling two nights and two days at a stretch; so they'd gone off to bed and were snoring hard by this time; the landlord could stake his solemn honor upon it.
The tipsy Royalist seemed content with the apology for non-appearance, and returned to his companions bellowing,—