Great Britain -- History -- Civil War, 1642-1649 -- Fiction
Tom received them into bodily presence with the notification that,
having suspected their object, he had sent all his people out of the
way, in order to avoid the least danger of a broil. Bowing to them with
the utmost politeness as they entered, he requested them to step forward
into the court while he closed the wicket behind them, but took the
opportunity of whispering to one of the men just inside the door of the
guardhouse, who, the moment Tom had led the rustics away, approached the
earl, and told him what he had said.
'What can the rascal mean?' said the earl to himself; but he told the
man to carry the fool's message exactly as he had received it, and
quietly followed Tom and his companions, some of whom, conceiving fresh
importance from the overstrained politeness with which they had been
received, were now attempting a transformation of their usual loundering
gait into a martial stride, with the result of a foolish strut, very
unlike the dignified progress of the sham earl, whose weak back roused
in them no suspicion, and who had taken care they should not see his
face. Across the paved court, and through the hall to the inner court,
Tom led them, and the earl followed.
The twilight was falling. The hall was empty of life, and filled with a
sombre dusk, echoing to every step as they passed through it. They did
not see the flash of eyes and glimmer of smiles from the minstrel's
gallery, and the solitude, size, and gloom had, even on their dull
natures, a palpable influence. The whole castle seemed deserted as they
followed the false earl across the second court--with the true one
stealing after them like a knave--little imagining that bright eyes were
watching them from the curtains of every window like stars from the
clear spaces and cloudy edges of heaven. To the north-west corner of the
court he led them, and through a sculptured doorway up the straight wide
ascent of stone called the grand staircase. At the top he turned to the
right, along a dim corridor, from which he entered a suite of bedrooms
and dressing-rooms, over whose black floors he led the trampling
hob-nailed shoes without pity either for their polish or the labour of
the housemaids in restoring it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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