In a few weeks, Lord Hilton returned. Though my room was so far from the great hall, I heard the clank of his spurs on its pavement. I trembled; for it suggested the sound of the broken shoe. But I shook off the influence in a moment, heartily ashamed of its power over me. Soon I became familiar enough both with the sound and its cause; for his lordship rarely went anywhere except on horseback, and was booted and spurred from morning till night. He received me with some appearance of interest, which instantly stiffened and froze. He began to shake hands with me as if he meant it, but immediately dropped my hand, as if it had stung him. His nobility was of that sort which always seems to stand in need of repair. Like a weakly constitution, it required keeping up, and his lordship could not be said to neglect it; for he seemed to find his principal employment in administering to his pride almost continuous doses of obsequiousness. His rank, like a coat made for some large ancestor, hung loose upon him; and he was always trying to persuade himself that it was an excellent fit, but ever with an unacknowledged misgiving. This misgiving might have done him good, had he not met it with constantly revived efforts at looking that which he feared he was not. Yet this man, so far from being weak throughout, was capable of the utmost persistency in carrying out any scheme he had once devised. But enough of him for the present: I seldom came into contact with him. I found many books to my mind in the neglected library of the hall. One night, I was sitting in my own room, devouring an old romance. It was late; my fire blazed brightly, but the candles were nearly burnt out, and I grew rather sleepy over the volume, romance as it was. Suddenly I found myself springing to my feet, and listening with an agony of intension. Whether I had heard anything, I could not tell; but it was in my soul as if I had. Yes: I was sure of it. Far away—somewhere in the great labyrinthine pile, I heard a voice, a faint cry. Without a moment’s reflection, as if urged by instinct, or some unfelt but operative attraction, I flew to the closet door, entered, lifted the tapestry, unfastened the inner door, and stood in the great echoing hall, amid the touches, light and ghostly, of the crowds of airy cobwebs set in motion by the storm of my sudden entrance.