“I am now a houseless, persecuted outlaw,” said Grahame when he mounted his steed to leave the humble cottage where he had found shelter. “The crop-eared puritanic knaves have shed the best blood in the country and they will not spare mine. The land is overrun with their troops, and there is no safety, in this portion of it at least. I will go once more to the halls of my fathers, take a last farewell of them, and then carry my life and sword to some foreign market, for, God help me, there is nothing else left to do.” It was a bright sunny afternoon when Grahame reached his ancestral halls, now deserted and melancholy. Already had the minions of the parliament sequestrated and shut up the mansion, and it was only through the fidelity of an old servant, who yet lingered around the place, that its former master was enabled to enter its portals. The aged retainer wept with joy on his lord’s hand, and said, “Oh! dark was the day when news came of your honor’s death.” “And was it then reported that I was no more? Yet how can I wonder at it, considering my long seclusion.” “Oh! yes—and sad times too they had of it over at Mordaunt Hall. The young mistress fainted away, and was near dying, though since she has heard that you yet lived—as we all did, you know, by your messenger,—she has wonderfully revived. But what ails you, my dear master?—are you sick?” “No—no—but I must to horse at once,” said Grahame, whose face had turned deadly pale at his servant’s joyful intelligence. “I may be back to sleep here—think you I can have safe hiding for one night in my father’s house?” “That may you, God bless your honor,” said the old man as Grahame rode away. “She loves me, then! Life is no more all a blank,” said the young knight almost gaily, as he dashed through the arcades of his park, his steed seeming to partake in his master’s exhilaration.