But the carriage dashed past at full speed, and the answer was drowned in the tumult. The postboys, true to the etiquette of their calling, had reserved their best pace for the finish, and it was at the stride of a hunting gallop they now tore along. It was a calm night, with a young faint moon and a starry sky, which, without displaying in bright light the details of the scenery, yet exhibited them in strong, bold masses, making all seem even more imposing and grander than in reality; the lofty mountain appeared higher, the dark woods vaster, and the wide-spreading lawn seemed to stretch away into immense plains. Darcy's heart swelled with pride as he looked, while a pang shot through him as he thought, if even at that hour he could call them his own. They had now reached a little glen, where the postboys were obliged to walk their blown cattle; emerging from this, they passed a thick grove of beech, and at once came in sight of the abbey. Darcy leaned anxiously from the window to catch the first sight of home, when what was his amazement to perceive that the whole was lighted up from end to end. The great suite of state rooms were a blaze of lustres, which even at that distance glittered in their starry brilliancy, and showed the shadows of figures moving within. He well knew that Lady Eleanor never saw company in his absence,--what could this mean? Tortured with doubts that in his then state of mind took every painful form, he ordered the postilions to get on faster, and at the very top of their speed they tore along, over the wide lawn, across the terrace drive, up the steep ascent to the gate tower into the courtyard. This was also brilliantly lighted by lamps from the walls, and also by the lights of numerous carriage lamps which crowded the ample space. “What is this? Can no one tell me?” muttered the Knight, as he leaped from the carriage, and, seizing a livery servant who was passing, said, “What is going on here? What company has the abbey?” “Full of company,” said the man, in an English accent; “there 's my Lord--” “Who do you mean?” “The Earl of Netherby, sir, and Sir Harry Beauclerk, and Colonel Crofton, and--” “When did they arrive?” said the Knight, interrupting a catalogue, every name of which, although unknown, sent a feeling like a stab through his heart. “They came the evening before last, sir; Mr. Lionel Darcy, who arrived the same morning--” “Is he here?” cried the Knight; and, without waiting for more, hastened forward.