egory
Ashburn. For the time was not yet. He must wait; wait until Joseph's
return, so that he might spend his vengeance upon both together.

Patient had he been for eighteen years, confident that ere he died, a
just and merciful God would give him this for which he lived and waited.
Yet now that the season was at hand; now upon the very eve of that for
which he had so long been patient, a frenzy of impatience fretted him.

He drank deep that night, and through deep drinking his manner
thawed--for in his cups it was not his to be churlish to friend or foe.
Anon Cynthia withdrew; next Kenneth, who went in quest of her. Still
Crispin sat on, and drank his host's health above his breath, and his
perdition under it, till in the end Gregory, who never yet had found
his master at the bottle, grew numb and drowsy, and sat blinking at the
tapers.

Until midnight they remained at table, talking of this and that, and
each understanding little of what the other said. As the last hour of
night boomed out through the great hall, Gregory spoke of bed.

"Where do I lie to-night?" asked Crispin.

"In the northern wing," answered Gregory with a hiccough.

"Nay, sir, I protest," cried Galliard, struggling to his feet, and
swaying somewhat as he stood. "I'll sleep in the King's chamber, none
other."

"The King's chamber?" echoed Gregory, and his face showed the confused
struggles of his brain. "What know you of the King's chamber?"

"That it faces the east and the sea, and that it is the chamber I love
best."

"What can you know of it since, I take it, you have never seen it!"

"Have I not?" he began, in a voice that was awful in its threatening
calm. Then, recollecting himself, and shaking some of the drunkenness
from him: "In the old days, when the Marleighs were masters here," he
mumbled, "I was often within these walls. Roland Marleigh was my friend.
The King's chamber was ever accorded me, and there, for old time's sake,
I'll lay these old bones of mine to-night."

"You were Roland Marleigh's friend?" gasped Gregory. He was very white
now, and there was a sheen of moisture on his face. The sound of that
name had well-nigh sobered him. It was almost as if the ghost of Roland
Marleigh stood before him. His knees were loosened, and he sank back
into the chair from which he had but risen.

"Aye, I was his friend!" assented Crispin. "Poor Roland! He married your
sister, did he not, and it was thus that, having no issue and th