"I am not accustomed to be doubted," answered he. "Other things as strange have happened at the hall."
"What mean you?" asked the gentleman, noticing this last remark.
"You would not need to ask the question of me, had you been there, amongst the other guests," retorted Peter. "Odd things, I tell you, have been done there this night, and stranger things may occur before the morning."
"You are insolent, sirrah! I comprehend you not."
"Enough! I can comprehend you," replied Peter, significantly; "I know the count of the mourners invited to this ceremonial, and I am aware that there are three too many."
"Know you this saucy knave, mother?"
"I cannot call him to mind, though I fancy I have seen him before."
"My recollection serves me better, lady," interposed Peter. "I remember one who was once the proud heiress of Rookwood—ay, proud and beautiful. Then the house was filled with her gallant suitors. Swords were crossed for her. Hearts bled for her. Yet she favored none, until one hapless hour. Sir Reginald Rookwood had a daughter; Sir Reginald lost a daughter. Ha!—I see I am right. Well, he is dead and buried; and Reginald, his son, is dead likewise; and Piers is on his road hither; and you are the last, as in the course of nature you might have been the first. And, now that they are all gone, you do rightly to bury your grievances with them."
"Silence, sirrah!" exclaimed the gentleman, "or I will beat your brains out with your own spade."
"No; let him speak, Vavasour," said the lady, with an expression of anguish—"he has awakened thoughts of other days."