as moved, but
awaited in silence the progress of this extraordinary communication.

"It is necessary," continued the Lord Keeper, "and proper that you
should understand, that there have been many points betwixt us, in
which, although I judged it proper that there should be an exact
ascertainment of my legal rights by the decree of a court of justice,
yet it was never my intention to press them beyond the verge of equity."

"My lord," said the Master of Ravenswood, "it is unnecessary to pursue
this topic farther. What the law will give you, or has given you, you
enjoy--or you shall enjoy; neither my father nor I myself would have
received anything on the footing of favour."

"Favour! No, you misunderstand me," resumed the Keeper; "or rather you
are no lawyer. A right may be good in law, and ascertained to be so,
which yet a man of honour may not in every case care to avail himself
of."

"I am sorry for it, my lord," said the Master.

"Nay, nay," retorted his guest, "you speak like a young counsellor;
your spirit goes before your wit. There are many things still open for
decision betwixt us. Can you blame me, an old man desirous of peace, and
in the castle of a young nobleman who has saved my daughter's life and
my own, that I am desirous, anxiously desirous, that these should be
settled on the most liberal principles?" The old man kept fast hold of
the Master's passive hand as he spoke, and made it impossible for him,
be his predetermination what it would, to return any other than an
acquiescent reply; and wishing his guest good-night, he postponed
farther conference until the next morning.

Ravenswood hurried into the hall, where he was to spend the night, and
for a time traversed its pavement with a disordered and rapid pace.
His mortal foe was under his roof, yet his sentiments towards him were
neither those of a feudal enemy nor of a true Christian. He felt as if
he could neither forgive him in the one character, nor follow forth his
vengeance in the other, but that he was making a base and dishonourable
composition betwixt his resentment against the father and his affection
for his daughter. He cursed himself, as he hurried to and fro in the
pale moonlight, and more ruddy gleams of the expiring wood-fire. He
threw open and shut the latticed windows with violence, as if alike
impatient of the admission and exclusion of free air. At length,
however, the torrent of passion foamed off its madness, and he flung
hi