by distance, and the modulation appealed to his ear like human
speech. It seemed to call upon him with a dreary insistence--to call him
far away, to address him personally, and to have a meaning that he
failed to seize. It was thus, at least, in this nodding castle, in a
cold, miry woodland, and so far from men and society, that the traffic
on the Great North Road spoke to him in the intervals of slumber.

CHAPTER III

JONATHAN HOLDAWAY

Nance descended the tower stair, pausing at every step. She was in no
hurry to confront her uncle with bad news, and she must dwell a little
longer on the rich note of Mr. Archer's voice, the charm of his kind
words, and the beauty of his manner and person. But, once at the
stair-foot, she threw aside the spell and recovered her sensible and
workaday self.

Jonathan was seated in the middle of the settle, a mug of ale beside
him, in the attitude of one prepared for trouble; but he did not speak,
and suffered her to fetch her supper and eat of it, with a very
excellent appetite, in silence. When she had done, she, too, drew a
tankard of home-brewed, and came and planted herself in front of him
upon the settle.

"Well?" said Jonathan.

"My lord has run away," said Nance.

"What?" cried the old man.

"Abroad," she continued; "run away from creditors. He said he had not a
stiver, but he was drunk enough. He said you might live on in the
castle, and Mr. Archer would pay you; but you was to look for no more
wages, since he would be glad of them himself."

Jonathan's face contracted; the flush of a black, bilious anger mounted
to the roots of his hair; he gave an inarticulate cry, leapt upon his
feet, and began rapidly pacing the stone floor. At first he kept his
hands behind his back in a tight knot; then he began to gesticulate as
he turned.

"This man--this lord," he shouted, "who is he? He was born with a gold
spoon in his mouth, and I with a dirty straw. He rolled in his coach
when he was a baby. I have dug and toiled and laboured since I was that
high--that high." And he shouted again. "I'm bent and broke, and full of
pains. D'ye think I don't know the taste of sweat? Many's the gallon
I've drunk of it--ay, in the midwinter, toiling like a slave. All
through, what has my life been? Bend, bend, bend my old creaking back
till it would ache like breaking; wade about in the foul mire, never a
dry stitch; empty belly, sore hands, hat off to my Lord Redface; kicks
and ha