Thus they lay, side by side--the dead warrior preserving the life of the hereditary enemy of his race. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. ANOTHER BOMB FOR THE REV. DUDLEY. Once more we must peep into the library at Lant Hall. Mr Vallance sat in his accustomed chair, thinking. His gaze would wander from the window to the blazing fire and back again, and the frown of anxiety deepened on his features. Without, the wind howled shrilly through the bare boughs, and a few scattered flakes of snow whirled in the air. "Why did we ever let him go?" he exclaimed aloud. "Why did we ever let him go?" Even as when last we saw him, Mr Vallance was terribly anxious on behalf of his son. His former misgivings had been allayed by the subsequent receipt of a letter from Geoffry; which missive, however, had given him to understand that it was the last the writer would have an opportunity of sending for some time--in fact, until he should be on his way home again. Characteristically, too, this letter contained only vague and general information that the writer had fallen in with and joined Winthrop's outfit; and of his meeting with Yseulte Santorex, not a word. It was of no use worrying about the matter, decided the Rev. Dudley. Any post might now bring intelligence that the boy was on his way home. It was poor comfort, and again he found himself repeating: "Why did we ever allow him to go?" Of the other affair which had so sorely troubled him--his cousin's unexpected and preposterous claim--he had heard no more. His apprehensions first were lulled, then subsided altogether. The whole business was palpably a "try on." A sound of subdued voices outside, then a knock. "A gentleman wishes to see you, sir." In his then frame of mind, Mr Vallance could not but feel startled by the interruption. "Who is he, James?" he asked, quickly. "He wouldn't give his name, sir. He said as how you'd be sure to see him, sir." "Quite right, quite right," said a deep voice, whose owner entered behind the astonished flunkey. "Er--How do, Dudley!" If Mr Vallance had been startled before, the expression of his features now betokened a state of mind little short of scare. His face had turned as white as a sheet, and his jaw fell as he stood helplessly staring at his visitor. "Why--bless my soul--Ralph," he stammered. Then advancing with outstretched hand, "Why--Ralph--I'm--I'm glad to see you. I hope you have come to stay with us for a time." The visitor's reception of this friendly--this hospitable overture, was singular. Standing bolt upright, he deliberately put his hand behind his back. "Glad to see me!" he echoed, with a sneer. "No, you are not. Why tell a--tarra-diddle. Such a tarra-diddle, too--and you a preacher--er--I beg your pardon--a _priest_, it used to be, if I remember right. You would sooner see the devil himself at this moment than me." Under the sting of this reply, the parson recovered a certain amount of dignity.