The lamp trembled in the hand of Learmont as he thought—“Oh, that for my own safety’s sake I dared plunge a dagger to the hilt in his heart!” Britton, however, seemed fully to feel his entire safety, and he evidently felt an exquisite enjoyment in the agony he was inflicting upon Learmont. He lounged slowly to the door, and nodding then in an insolent, and familiar manner, he crossed the hall to the outer door, while Learmont, nearly bursting with rage, sprung up the marble staircase to the upper apartment of the house. “This is brave work,” muttered Britton when he had passed out into the street. “Humph! For ten long years did Master Learmont get the better of me in cunning, and I could not drag him down without placing a halter round my own neck; but now, thanks to the cunning of Master Jacob Gray, I have the means of toppling the squire from his height of power and grandeur without myself the least harm in the world. Ho! Ho! ’Tis brave indeed. And now for this Gray. I don’t see why I should not have charge of that young scion of an ancient stock, who is so great an eye-sore to Learmont. We shall see—we shall see, Master Gray, whether you or I will succeed best in a contest of cunning in the long run, and now for wine and jollity.” The smith had now arrived at the door of “The Old Chequers,” where, as the place most congenial to his disposition, he had taken up his abode, and where showing that he had plenty of money, he was welcomed accordingly. “Hilloa!” he roared. “Landlord, some of your best. Quick—quick, I say; I am thirsty, man.” The landlord needed no second bidding, but placed a tankard of foaming ale before the smith; who immediately took a deep draught of its contents. “Hurrah!” he cried; “I am Andrew Britton, the smith, and I don’t care who knows it.” “Certainly not, most worshipful sir,” said the landlord. “Ah,” cried Britton, “worshipful sir. That’s a very good name, and I’ll be called that for the future. Here’s a quart of the best to whoever calls me worshipful sir, and whoever don’t I’ll wring his neck.” “Hurrah! For the jolly smith“ cried a chorus of topers who were around. “We’ll drink your health, worshipful sir.” “So you shall,” cried Britton. “Here’s gold, and there’s more, too, where that comes from. Landlord, do you hear? Quarts all round. The best—the humming ale, recollect, that makes a man sing.” CHAPTER XIII. A Walk in the Park.—A Recognition.—The Question.—A Defiance.—Jacob Gray’s First Visit.—The Dream. The Squire Learmont’s first night in his splendid mansion was by no means an agreeable one. He retired to rest vexed and enraged at Andrew Britton, and his mind in a chaos of conflicting thoughts how to rid himself of the insufferable torment of the threatened visits from that man whose very name would have been sufficient, at any time, to bring a chill to Learmont’s heart, and dash the brimming cup of joy from his lips.