The Arondelle Arms, lighted up and musical, was the only noisy spot about it. The mountains stood, grand and silent, like gigantic sentinels around it. The lake, the island, and the castle of Lone lay beneath it. A sudden impulse seized the duke to cross the bridge, and re-visit once more the home of his youth, the scene of his family's disaster, the stage of that frightful tragedy which had shocked the civilized world. He went down to the beach, and stepped upon the bridge. Now, no floral wedding decorations wreathed the arches. All was bare and bleak beneath the last October sky. He crossed the bridge and entered on the grounds of the castle. All here was sear under the late autumnal frosts. He did not approach the castle walls. He would not disturb the servants at this hour. He walked about the grounds until he heard the clock in Malcolm's Old Tower strike ten. Then he turned his steps toward the hamlet. Just before he reached the bridge, he overtook the tall, dark figure of a man, clothed in a long, close overcoat, in shape not unlike a priest's walking habit. The man tottered and stumbled as he walked, so that the duke was soon abreast to him. And then he discovered the wanderer to be John Potts, valet to the late Sir Lemuel Levison. The young Duke of Hereward shrunk from this man. He could not bring himself to speak with one whom he could not, in his own mind, clear from suspicion. He passed the valet, walking quickly, and gaining the bridge. Then he heard footsteps rapidly following him, and the voice of the ex-valet excitedly calling after him: "My Lord Arondelle! oh! I beg pardon! Your grace! Your grace! For the love of Heaven, let me speak to you!" Thus adjured, the Duke of Hereward paused, and permitted the ex-valet to come up beside him. The wretched man was out of breath, pale, panting, trembling, ready to faint. He tottered toward the bulwarks of the bridge, grasped them, and leaned on them for support. "What do you want of me, Potts?" inquired the duke. "Oh, your grace! only to speak to you!" gasped the man. "What can you have to say to me?" sternly demanded the duke. "_This_, your grace!" said the man, suddenly springing forward and falling on his knees at the feet of the duke. "_This_ I have to say, your grace! Although the Court has not cleared me, I am innocent of my master's blood! I am! I am! I am! as the Heaven above us hears and knows! Oh! say you believe me, my lord duke!" cried the poor wretch, wringing his hands. "Your words and manner are very impressive; nevertheless, I cannot place confidence in them," said the duke, coldly. "Oh, my lord! my lord! Oh, my lord! my lord!" groaned the valet, lifting both his hands to heaven, as if in appeal from a great injustice. The duke was moved. "If you _are_ guiltless, why should you care whether I, or any other fallible mortal, should consider you guilty?" he inquired.