"Nay, nay, boy; Purlrose. He'll know directly you speak. Tell him, I'm waiting to grasp him by the hand." Ralph nodded, and sprang up the stone flight, while the visitor's companions threw themselves down upon the steps to rest, their leader remaining standing, and placing himself by the mounting stone on one side, hand upon sword-hilt, and arranging his ragged cloak in folds with as much care as if it had been of newest velvet. CHAPTER TWO. SIR MORTON RECEIVES HIS GUEST. "Father can't be pleased," thought the lad, as he hurried in through a heavy oaken door, strengthened by the twisted and scrolled iron bands of the huge hinges, and studded with great-headed nails. This yielded heavily, as, seizing a ring which moved a lever, he raised the heavy latch, and for a moment, as he passed through, he hesitated about closing the door again upon the group below. But as he glanced at the party, he hesitated no longer. Their appearance begat no confidence, and the great latch clicked directly. The next minute, he was hurrying along a dark stone passage, to spring up a few more stairs, leading into a corridor with a polished oaken floor, and mullioned windows looking down upon the courtyard; and as he reached the second, a bright, handsome girl, whose features proclaimed sisterhood, started out to meet him. "Oh Ralph," she said, "who are those dreadful-looking men you have brought up?" "Don't stop me, Min," he said hastily. "Old soldiers who want to see father. Where is he?" "In his room." The lad hurried on, and entered through a door way on his left, to where, in an oaken-panelled room, a stern, slightly grey, military-looking man sat poring over an old book, but looked up directly the lad entered. "Ah, Ralph, boy," he said; "been out?" "Only on the cliff, father," cried the lad hastily. "Visitors." "Visitors? Nonsense! I expect no visitors. Who are they?" "Captain Purlrose and his men." "Purlrose!" cried Sir Morton, with a look of angry disgust. "Here?" "Yes, father," said Ralph, watching keenly the impression made by his words. "Waiting at the foot of the steps." "Bah! I thought the drunken, bullying scoundrel was dead and gone years ago. Hung or shot, for he deserved either." "Hah!" ejaculated the lad, with a sigh of relief. "Then you are not glad to see him, father?" "Glad to see him? Are you mad, boy?" "No, father," said the lad, with a merry laugh. "I hope not; but he said you would be, and that you were old brothers-in-arms, and that he longed to grip you by the hand; and he tried to hug me, and shed tears, and flattered me, and said all sorts of things." "Pah! the same as of old; but you said--and his men." "Yes, about a dozen like him; ruffianly-looking, rag-bags of fellows, all armed, and looking like a gang of bullies and robbers." Sir Morton frowned, rose from his seat, and walked to the side of the room, where his sword and belt lay in front of a bookcase.