“Request nothing of ME, my lord,” said the stranger, in a stern and peremptory tone; “I am the Master of Ravenswood.”
There was a dead pause of surprise, not unmixed with less pleasant feelings. The Master wrapt himself in his cloak, made a haughty inclination toward Lucy, muttering a few words of courtesy, as indistinctly heard as they seemed to be reluctantly uttered, and, turning from them, was immediately lost in the thicket.
“The Master of Ravenswood!” said the Lord Keeper, when he had recovered his momentary astonishment. “Hasten after him—stop him—beg him to speak to me for a single moment.”
The two foresters accordingly set off in pursuit of the stranger. They speedily reappeared, and, in an embarrassed and awkward manner, said the gentleman would not return.
The Lord Keeper took one of the fellows aside, and questioned him more closely what the Master of Ravenswood had said.
“He just said he wanda come back,” said the man, with the caution of a prudent Scotchman, who cared not to be the bearer of an unpleasant errand.
“He said something more, sir,” said the Lord Keeper, “and I insist on knowing what it was.”
“Why, then, my lord,” said the man, looking down, “he said—But it wad be nae pleasure to your lordship to hear it, for I dare say the Master meant nae ill.”
“That’s none of your concern, sir; I desire to hear the very words.”