Strangwayes came away laughing, and under Griffith’s guidance they went down a corridor to a snug parlor, where they had the good fortune to find Sir William, idle for the moment, and unattended save by a single hound. The dog made a dash to meet Dick, barking hilariously the while, so Hugh could only see that the baronet embraced his nephew warmly, and he stepped back a little to leave them to themselves. But Dick haled him forward, and Sir William spoke to him with a gracious sort of welcome that made Hugh stammer, when he tried to thank him for the effort to secure his pardon. “Nonsense, nonsense,” spoke Sir William; “we had no need to seek it, sir. You have the wit or the good fortune to be able to maintain yourself without our help. Your father ought to be proud of you.” He stopped there, then, as he turned again to Strangwayes, added with a certain diffidence: “I pray you, Master Gwyeth, do not forget to go speak to Francis; he has been in a fit of the sullens since yesternight.” Hugh left the room in some wonderment, and, seizing upon a serving man, was speedily conducted by a passageway, up a flight of stairs, and along a gallery to a closed door. Hugh knocked, and, getting no reply, knocked again, then tried the door and found it bolted within. “Frank,” he called, and began shaking the door. “Open to me. ’Tis Hugh Gwyeth.” There was an instant’s pause, then a slow step across the floor, and the grate of the bolt in the socket. “Come in, hang you!” Frank’s voice reached him. It was a big cheerless tower chamber, Hugh saw, with heavy scant furniture and windows high from the floor that now gave little light. He stood a moment, half expecting Frank to speak or bid him be seated, but the boy slouched back to the bed that stood in the farther corner, and, without looking at him, flung himself down upon it. “Why, what’s amiss?” Hugh broke out, and went to him; now he came nearer he saw Frank had been crying much. “Nothing,” the boy answered, and kept his face bent down as if he were ashamed. “Tell me,” Hugh urged, “you’ll feel the better for it. Is it anything because of Griffith?” “Yes, it’s that,” Frank cried, raising his head defiantly. “They have taken away my cornetcy, Hugh. ’Tis all along of Michael Turner. And I never harmed him; I had done my best. But he comes to my father; he says he must have a man for his troop. So my father turns his anger on me; he said I was a selfish, heedless child, where ’twas time I bore me as a young man. And then Ned Griffith comes back all cured, and they stripped me of my cornetcy to give it to him.” Frank dropped down with his face buried in the pillow. “I pray you, go away,” he choked; and, in the next breath, “Nay, come back, Hugh; you’ve always been my friend.” Hugh sat down obediently by the bed, scarcely knowing what to say, when Frank with his face still hidden suddenly broke out, “Hugh, did you look to have that cornetcy last winter?”