"Am I not," said the youth, stepping up to the perplexed sentinel—"am I not Lord Maxwell's brother?"
"His brither!!!" exclaimed Charlie, in a tone which can only be represented by a regiment of notes of admiration.
"Yes—his brother," repeated the youth, at the same time slightly raising his bonnet so as to give Charlie a peep of a very fair complexion. "Look at me again."
Charlie's wonder ceased in a moment.
"I daurna dispute what you say."
"Then he is Lord's Maxwell's brother!" said the conductor of the youth.
"Wha else should he be?" replied Charlie o' Kirkhouse, at the same time resuming his duties.
Leave of admission was soon obtained for the youth; and, in the course of a few minutes, he stood in the presence of Lord Maxwell. The room into which he was introduced was small and gloomy—for the light was admitted only by a single loophole, guarded by a bar of iron; and everything showed that this was, indeed, a prison. The tenant of this apartment was engaged at a table, placed as near the scanty window as possible, and covered with books and papers, which he seemed to be intently studying.
"Your brother, my lord," said the jailer. "I will return in half-an-hour," he added, turning to the youth, whom he then left standing in the middle of the room.
"My brother Charlie?" exclaimed Lord Maxwell, starting up, and hastening to meet his visiter. "I thought you had been in London. But how? you are not my brother. Charlie was a strapping fellow when last I saw him, and—excuse me—you have the advantage."