There was a sound of heavy boots ringing upon the stone pavements as the travelers sprung to the ground, a loud barking, and then a voice, whose deep bass was like the reverberation of distant thunder, was heard exclaiming, “Down, Pedro! Ho, there! Down close! Back to! Unbuckle the leash, Philip.” Then the voice of the host, like the yelp of a puppy after the growl of a mastiff. “Fire, gentlemen? Yes, fire in the bar-room. This way, this way.” The door was flung open, and a man advanced in life, but of almost gigantic height and proportions, entered the room. A heavy furred over-coat was tightly buttoned across his broad chest, and the black hunting-cap, which he had disdained to remove, shaded a brow, white and massive as a slab of marble. Upon his shoulder rested a superbly finished rifle, and from the flaps of his surcoat-pocket protruded the silver handle of his hunting-knife. He was followed by a handsome youth of about twenty, who, as he entered, shook the moisture from his over-coat, and lifting his cap, brushed off the snow that had powdered the shining sable of his hair. Two powerful hounds, of a rare and foreign breed, sprung before him and secured their places by the hearth, shaking vigorously as they passed, the water from their chilled limbs upon those around them. “Room here!” said the elder stranger, imperiously; and they whom he addressed, intimidated, though resentful, moved back, while the new comers drew their chairs before the fire. A dead silence had succeeded their boisterous mirth, and while the elder of the sportsmen sat wrapped in thought, his young companion, with a countenance expressive of the most extreme ennui, occupied himself alternately by pushing with his boot the logs that, when disturbed, sent a torrent of bright sparks crackling up the chimney, and by teasing the drowsy hounds stretched beside him. Still apparently intent upon his book, but gazing earnestly upon the twain through his parted fingers, sat Edward Clifdon. At last the elder stranger spoke, but in German, to his companion. “I have decided, Philip,” he said, abruptly. “You are young—too young; yet I leave you your own master. I give my consent to your marriage some few years hence, with the woman you have chosen, and chosen, I trust, wisely.” “A thousand, thousand thanks, my dear father,” began the youth, with animation; but Mordaunt, for it was he, checked him. “Thanks! yes, that I have decided in accordance with your wishes,” he said, bitterly; “but had it been otherwise—how then, Philip?” His companion spoke not, but looked deeply hurt. “I have seen enough of filial disobedience,” said Mordaunt, rising as he spoke, “to be doubtful with regard to the result; but we will let that pass. Nay, no thanks, if you please; I am weary, and you know how I detest a scene. Good night!” And striding hastily across the room, he retired.