emotions,
than the mere circumstance of its unexpectedness. The figure was very
strange, being that of a tall, lean, ungainly man, dressed in a dingy
suit, somewhat of a Spanish fashion, with a brown laced cloak, and faded
red stockings. He had long lank legs, long arms, hands, and fingers, and
a very long sickly face, with a drooping nose, and a sly, sarcastic
leer, and a great purplish stain over-spreading more than half of one
cheek.

As he strode past, he touched his cap with his thin, discoloured
fingers, and an ugly side glance, and disappeared round the corner. The
eyes of father and daughter followed him in silence.

Ultor De Lacy seemed first absolutely terror-stricken, and then suddenly
inflamed with ungovernable fury. He dropped his cane on the ground, drew
his rapier, and, without wasting a thought on his daughter, pursued.

He just had a glimpse of the retreating figure as it disappeared round
the far angle. The plume, and the lank hair, the point of the
rapier-scabbard, the flutter of the skirt of the cloak, and one red
stocking and heel; and this was the last he saw of him.

When Alice reached his side, his drawn sword still in his hand, he was
in a state of abject agitation.

"Thank Heaven, he's gone!" she exclaimed.

"He's gone," echoed Ultor, with a strange glare.

"And you are safe," she added, clasping his hand.

He sighed a great sigh.

"And you don't think he's coming back?"

"He!--who?"

"The stranger who passed us but now. Do you know him, father?"

"Yes--and--no, child--I know him not--and yet I know him too well. Would
to heaven we could leave this accursed haunt tonight. Cursed be the
stupid malice that first provoked this horrible feud, which no sacrifice
and misery can appease, and no exorcism can quell or even suspend. The
wretch has come from afar with a sure instinct to devour my last
hope--to dog us into our last retreat--and to blast with his triumph the
very dust and ruins of our house. What ails that stupid priest that he
has given over his visits? Are _my_ children to be left without mass or
confession--the sacraments which _guard_ as well as save--because he
once loses his way in a mist, or mistakes a streak of foam in the brook
for a dead man's face? D--n him!"

"See, Alice, if he won't come," he resumed, "you must only _write_ your
confession to him in full--you and Una. Laurence is trusty, and will
carry it--and we'll get the bishop's--or, if need be, the Pope's l