Meanwhile, without a word, Gaston had mounted, ridden to the castle, and passed through the open gates into the court-yard. Inside he paused. In the main building many lights were burning. There came a rattle of wheels behind him, and he shifted to let a carriage pass. Through the window of the brougham he could see the shimmer of satin, lace, and soft white fur, and he had an instant’s glance of a pretty face. The carriage drew up to the steps, and presently three ladies and a brusque gentleman passed into the hall-way, admitted by powdered footmen. The incident had a manner, an air, which struck Gaston, he knew not why. Perhaps it was the easy finesse of ceremonial. He looked at Brillon. He had seen him sit arms folded like that, looking from the top of a bluff down on an Indian village or a herd of buffaloes. There was wonder, but no shyness or agitation, on his face; rather the naive, naked look of a child. Belward laughed. “Come, Brillon; we are at home.” He rode up to the steps, Jacques following. A foot man appeared and stared. Gaston looked down on him neutrally, and dismounted. Jacques did the same. The footman still stared. Another appeared behind. Gaston eyed the puzzled servant calmly. “Why don’t you call a groom?” he presently said. There was a cold gleam in his eye. The footman shrank. “Yessir, yessir,” he said confusedly, and signalled. The other footman came down, and made as if to take the bridle. Gaston waved him back. None too soon, for the horse lunged at him. “A rub down, a pint of beer, and water and feed in an hour, and I’ll come to see him myself late to-night.” Jacques had loosened the saddle-bags and taken them off. Gaston spoke to the horse, patted his neck, and gave him to the groom. Then he went up the steps, followed by Jacques. He turned at the door to see the groom leading both horses off, and eyeing Saracen suspiciously. He laughed noiselessly. “Saracen ‘ll teach him things,” he said. “I might warn him, but it’s best for the horses to make their own impressions.” “What name, sir?” asked a footman. “You are--?” “Falby, Sir.” “Falby, look after my man Brillon here, and take me to Sir William.” “What name, sir?” Gaston, as if with sudden thought, stepped into the light of the candles, and said in a low voice: “Falby, don’t you know me?” The footman turned a little pale, as his eyes, in spite of themselves, clung to Gaston’s. A kind of fright came, and then they steadied. “Oh yes, sir,” he said mechanically. “Where have you seen me?” “In the picture on the wall, sir.” “Whose picture, Falby?” “Sir Gaston Belward, Sir.” A smile lurked at the corners of Gaston’s mouth. “Gaston Belward. Very well, then you know what to say to Sir William. Show me into the library.” “Or the justices’ room, sir?” “The justices’ room will do.”