The woodman rose, and taking down from a cupboard a bundle of fox-skins, arranged them on the floor, put a couple of chair-cushions at the head to serve as pillows, and threw a riding-cloak--which, by the way, did not correspond with a woodman's usual attire, and pointed to the impromptu bed. "Thanks," said Jack, getting up and taking off his coat and boots. "It is a poor bed," remarked the woodman, but the Savage interrupted him with a cheerful though sleepy assurance that it needed no apologies. "I could sleep on a rail to-night," he said, "and that looks comfortable enough for a king! Fine skins! Good-night!" and he held out his hand. Gideon looked at it, but refusing it, nodded gravely. "You won't shake hands!" exclaimed the Savage, with a little flush and an aggrieved tone. "Come, isn't that carrying the high and imposing rather too far, old fellow? Makes one feel more ashamed than ever, you know. Perhaps I'd better march, after all." "No," said Gideon, slowly. "It is not that I owe you any ill-will for your presence here. You are welcome, but I cannot take your hand. Good-night," and he went to the stairs. At the door, however, he paused, and looked over his shoulder. "Did you say that--Squire Davenant was your uncle, Mr. Newcombe?" "Eh--uncle? Well, scarcely. It's rather difficult to tell what relationship there is between us. He's a sort of cousin, I believe," answered Jack, carelessly, but yet with a touch of gravity that had something comical about it. "Rum old boy, isn't he? You know him, don't you?" Gideon shook his head. "Oh, I thought you did by the way you looked when I mentioned his name just now. Good thing you don't, for you might have something to say about him that is not pleasant, and though the old man and I are not turtle doves just now, I'm bound to stand up for him for the sake of old times." "You have quarreled?" the old man said; but the Savage had already curled himself up in the fox-skins, and was incapable of further conversation. Gideon Rolfe crossed the room, and holding the candle above his head, looked down at the sleeper. "Yes," he muttered, "it's the same face--they are alike! Faces of angels and the hearts of devils. What fate has sent him here to-night?" Though Jack Newcombe was by no means one of those impossible, perfect heroes whom we have sometimes met in history, and was, alas! as full of imperfections as a sieve is of holes, he was a gentleman, and for a savage, was possessed of a considerable amount of delicacy. "Seems to me," he mused, "that the best thing I can do is to take my objectionable self out of the way before any of the good folks put in an appearance. The old fellow will be sure to order me off the premises directly after the breakfast; and I, in common gratitude, ought to save him the trouble."