compelled, his assistance.

"This gentleman," said Sir William Ashton, "will, I trust, not regret
the trouble we have given him, when I assure him of the gratitude of
the Lord Keeper for the greatest service which one man ever rendered to
another--for the life of my child--for my own life, which he has saved
by his bravery and presence of mind. He will, I am sure, permit us to
request----" "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 wadna 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."

"Weel, then," replied the man, "he said, 'Tell Sir William Ashton that
the next time he and I forgather, he will nto be half sae blythe of our
meeting as of our parting.'"

"Very well, sir," said the Lord Keeper, "I believe he alludes to a wager
we have on our hawks; it is a matter of no consequence."

He turned to his daughter, who was by this time so much recovered as to
be able to walk home. But the effect, which the various recollections
connected with a scene so terrific made upon a mind which was
susceptible in an extreme degree, was more permanent than the injury
which her nerves had sustained. Visions of terror, both in sleep and in
waking reveries, recalled to her