* * * * * CHAPTER IV. OUT OF THE DEPTHS. After dismissing his nephew, Sir Oswald Eversleigh abandoned himself for some time to gloomy thought. The trial had been a very bitter one; but at length, arousing himself from that gloomy reverie, he said aloud, "Thank Heaven it is over; my resolution did not break down, and the link is broken." Sir Oswald had made his arrangements for leaving London that afternoon, on the first stage of his journey to Raynham Castle. There were few railroads six-and-twenty years ago, and the baronet was in the habit of travelling in his own carriage, with post-horses. The journey from London to the far north of Yorkshire was, therefore, a long one, occupying two or three days. Sir Oswald left town an hour after his interview with Reginald Eversleigh. It was ten o'clock when he alighted for the first time in a large, bustling town on the great northern road. He had changed horses several times since leaving London, and had accomplished a considerable distance within the five hours. He put up at the principal hotel, where he intended to remain for the night. From the windows of his rooms was to be seen the broad, open market-place, which to-night was brilliantly lighted, and thronged with people. Sir Oswald looked with surprise at the bustling scene, as one of the waiters drew the curtains before the long windows. "Your town seems busy to-night," he said. "Yes, sir; there has been a fair, sir--our spring fair, sir--a cattle fair, sir. Perhaps you'd rather not have the curtains drawn, sir. You may like to look out of the window after dinner, sir." "Look out of the window?--oh, dear no! Close the curtains by all means." The waiter wondered at the gentleman's bad taste, and withdrew to hasten the well-known guest's dinner. It was long past eleven, and Sir Oswald was sitting brooding before the fire, when he was startled from his reverie by the sound of a woman's voice singing in the market-place below. The streets had been for some time deserted, the shops closed, the lights extinguished, except a few street-lamps, flickering feebly here and there. All was quiet, and the voice of the street ballad-singer sounded full and clear in the stillness. Sir Oswald Eversleigh was in no humour to listen to street-singers. It must needs be some voice very far removed from common voices which could awaken him from his gloomy abstraction. It was, indeed, an uncommon voice, such a voice as one rarely hears beyond the walls of the Italian opera-house--such a voice as is not often heard even within those walls. Full, clear, and rich, the melodious accents sent a thrill to the innermost heart of the listener. The song which the vagrant was singing was the simplest of ballads. It was "Auld Robin Gray."