“Don’t stir!” said his master. “Let our amiable friend open the gate for himself.” With an angry exclamation, the rider leapt from his saddle, and still holding the horse’s reins, threw the gate wide open. Then, still leading his horse, he strode over towards the young man, who, looking up, saw that he was nearly six feet high, and very powerfully built, “My name is Monk, of Monkshurst,” he said. “I’ve a good mind to teach you to remember it.” “Don’t be afraid,” was the reply. “Monk, of Monkshurst? I shall be certain not to forget it, Mr. Monk, of Monkshurst!--Tim, is the water boiling?” For a moment Mr. Monk, as he called himself, seemed, ready to draw his ridingwhip across the young man’s face; but, conquering himself, he surveyed him from head to foot with savage anger. Nothing daunted, the young man returned his stare with something very like supreme contempt. At last, muttering beneath his breath, Mr. Monk turned away, and leading his horse into the avenue, closed the gate, and remounted; but even then he did not immediately depart, but remained for some minutes, seated in the saddle, scowling over at the encampment. Thus occupied, his face and figure set in the gloomy framework of the trees, he looked even more forbidding than before.’ His face, though naturally handsome, was dark with tempestuous passions, his eyes deep-set and fierce, his clean-shaven jaw square and determined. For the rest, his black hair, which was thickly mixed with iron-grey, fell almost to his shoulders, and his upper lip was covered with an iron-grey moustache. At last, as if satisfied with his scrutiny, Mr. Monk turned his horse round with a fierce jerk of the rein, and rode rapidly away in the shadow of the wood. CHAPTER II.--LEAVES FROM A YOUNG GENTLEMAN’S JOURNAL. Before setting forth on this memorable pilgrimage to nowhere, I promised a certain friend of mine, in literary Bohemia, to keep notes of my adventures, with a view to future publication, illustrated by my own brilliant sketches. I fear the promise was a rash one, firstly, because I am constitutionally lazy and averse to literary exertion; and secondly, because I have, as yet, met with no adventures worth writing about. Not that I have altogether lost my first enthusiasm for the idea. There would be novelty in the title, at any rate: ‘Cruises in a Caravan, by Charles Brinkley, with illustrations by the author; photographic frontispiece, the caravan, with Tim as large as life, smirking self-consciously in delight at having his ‘pictur’ taken. My friend B------ has promised to find me a publisher, if I will only persevere. Well, we shall see. If the book does not progress, it will be entirely my own fault; for I have any amount of time on my hands. Paint as hard as I may all day, I have always the long evenings, when I must either write, read, or do nothing.