Count Gondimar and Lady Margaret, were engaged in deep discourse. “I can hardly believe it,” said she. “It is most true—most terribly true,” said Gondimar. “I will question the boy myself,” she cried; “he is subtle with all that appearance of clownish simplicity; but we shall gather something from him. Now, Lady Trelawney, give me leave to speak, and do you lead these gentlemen and ladies into the fresh air. Lady Augusta says she longs to behold living objects and day-light. I shall soon overtake you. Come here. I think, from what I have gathered, that St. Alvin Priory has not been inhabited by any of the Glenarvon family since the year ****: in that case, who has had charge of it?” “None but Mr. Mackenzie and Dame since the old Lord de Ruthven’s and his son the young Colonel’s time. There’s been no quality in these parts till now; but about three years and better, the young Lord sent some of his friends here, he being in Italy; and as they only asked for the ould ruin, and did not wish to meddle with the castle, they have done their will there. The steward lets them bide.” “Have they been here above three years?” “Indeed then, that they’ve not, your honour; for sometimes they’ve all been here, and sometimes there’s not a soul alive: but since last Michaelmas, there’s been no peace for them.” “Can you tell me any of their names?” “All, I believe; for isn’t there one calls himself Citizen Costoly, whom we take to be the master, the real Lord; but he cares not to have it thought: only he’s such a manner with him, one can’t but think it. Then there’s Mister O’Kelly, he as calls himself Citizen Wailman—the wallet; and there’s another as sings, but has no name, a female; and there’s a gentleman cries and sobs, and takes care of a baby; and his name, I think, is Macpherson; then there’s the old one as howls; and Mrs. Kelly O’Grady; and St. Clara, the prophetess; besides many more as come to feast and revel here.” “And what right have they to be here?” “Why to be sure, then, they’ve not any right at all; that’s what we are all talking of; except them letters from my Lord; and they all live a strange wicked life under ground, the like of thaves; and whatever’s the reason, for some time past, that young gentleman as was, is disappeared: nothing’s known as to what’s gone with him—only he’s gone; and the child—och! the young master’s here, and the only one of ’em, indeed, as looks like a christian.” “Is his name Clare of Costoly?” “Ah! sure your honour knows him.”