“Nor can you expect me to comply constantly with extortionate demands,” replied Learmont, trembling with passion. “We will settle all to-night,” said the smith. “Do not fail us, sir.” “Be assured I will not. But recollect, I come to purchase the silence, not of a well kept secret, but of the grave.” They parted, and once again the Squire of Learmont was alone with his own thoughts. He threw himself into a chair, with a deep groan, saying, “There must be more blood—more blood, ere I can dream of safety.” CHAPTER VI. Night Again.—The Ruins.—The Conference.—The Old Oaken Door.—The Resolve. Great was the surprise in the village of Learmont at the non-appearance of the stranger who had arrived during the snow storm at the village. He had been seen with the smith proceeding to Learmont House, but that one should willingly take up even a day residence with Savage Britton, at the old Smithy, was quite beyond the comprehension of the simple villagers. But such appeared, however, to be the fact, for every one was confident the stranger had not left Learmont, so it was quite clear he was with the smith. Such was the terror which Britton and his house were held in that none ventured to go sufficiently near it to ascertain the fact, and the day passed away in endless conjectures as to what the stranger could by possibility want at Learmont, first, with the smith, and then with the squire. Night came without in the least assuaging the general curiosity, or adding any new food to it, and as the sun sunk in the far west, and the cold evening wind swept moaning and sighing among the leafless trees, the heavy clank of the smith’s hammer was heard as usual at intervals till near midnight. Then when the clock in the high tower of Learmont struck twelve, a tall figure enveloped in an ample cloak stalked through the village, and took the direct route to the Old Smithy. The night had set in very dark, there was no moonlight, for masses of heavy clouds obscured its light, although it was nearly at the full, and the long straggling building, one wing of which was inhabited by the smith, showed but faintly against the black sky. The Squire of Learmont, for it was he, who at the silent hour of midnight, had stolen out to keep his appointment, paused when he reached the wing of the house which had been burnt down on the night of the storm, and the crumbling ruins of which remained by his orders just as they had fallen. A shudder came ever his frame as he regarded them and he muttered, “Can I? Dare I leave this spot with the knowledge of what it conceals? And yet, I am surely safe now. If these men—these tools by which I have hewn my path to wealth; if these could be safely disposed of—then—ah, then, I might know peace. At least this anxious fever of wild apprehension that gnaws at my heart would subside, and if I had a pang it would be for the past and not from a dread of that which was to come.”