it--perhaps about
two in the morning. I shall sit in the dining-room, but don't bring it
until I ring. Mind that, for I can't stand interruption--as you know."

"Yes, sir."

Simon knew his imperious young master too well to make any comment on
his commands. He returned, therefore, to the kitchen, told the cook of
the order he had received to sit up and take Master Harry's coffee to
him when he should ring, and made arrangements with Robin to sit up and
help him to enliven his vigil with a game of draughts.

Having thus made his arrangements, Harry Stronghand went out to enjoy a
walk. He was a tremendous walker--thought nothing of twenty or thirty
miles, and rather preferred to walk at night than during the day,
especially when moon and stars were shining. Perhaps it was a dash of
poetry in his nature that induced this preference.

About midnight he returned, went straight to the dining-room, and,
entering, shut the door, while Simon retired to his own regions and
resumed his game with Robin.

A small fire was burning in the dining-room grate, the flickering flames
of which leaped up occasionally, illuminated the frowning ancestors on
the walls, and gleamed on the armour of the ancient knight and the
Crusader.

Walking up to the latter, Harry looked at him sternly; but as he looked,
his mouth relaxed into a peculiar smile, and displayed his magnificent
teeth as far back as the molars. Then he went to the window, saw that
the fastenings were right, and drew down the blinds. He did not think
it needful to close the shutters, but he drew a thick heavy curtain
across the opening of the bay-window, so as to shut it off effectually
from the rest of the room. This curtain was so arranged that the iron
sentinels were not covered by it, but were left in the room, as it were,
to mount guard over the curtain.

This done, the youth turned again to the Crusader and mounted behind him
on the low pedestal on which he stood. Unfastening his chain-mail
armour at the back, he opened him up, so to speak, and went in. The
suit fitted him fairly well, for Harry was a tall, strapping youth for
his years, and when he looked out at the aperture of the headpiece and
smiled grimly, he seemed by no means a degenerate warrior.

Returning to the fireplace, he sat down in an easy chair and buried
himself in a favourite author.

One o'clock struck. Harry glanced up, nodded pleasantly, as if on
familiar terms with Time, and resum