The knight advanced to the entrance; but the ingenuity of the architect, for want of a better lock to the door, which itself was but of wattles curiously twisted, had contrived a mode of securing the latch on the inside with a pin, which prevented it from rising; and in this manner it was at present fastened. Conceiving that this was some precaution of Joliffe’s old housekeeper, of whose deafness they were all aware, Sir Henry raised his voice to demand admittance, but in vain. Irritated at this delay, he pressed the door at once with foot and hand, in a way which the frail barrier was unable to resist; it gave way accordingly, and the knight thus forcibly entered the kitchen, or outward apartment, of his servant. In the midst of the floor, and with a posture which indicated embarrassment, stood a youthful stranger, in a riding-suit. “This may be my last act of authority here,” said the knight, seizing the stranger by the collar, “but I am still Ranger of Woodstock for this night at least—Who, or what art thou?” The stranger dropped the riding-mantle in which his face was muffled, and at the same time fell on one knee. “Your poor kinsman, Markham Everard,” he said, “who came hither for your sake, although he fears you will scarce make him welcome for his own.” Sir Henry started back, but recovered himself in an instant, as one who recollected that he had a part of dignity to perform. He stood erect, therefore, and replied, with considerable assumption of stately ceremony: “Fair kinsman, it pleases me that you are come to Woodstock upon the very first night that, for many years which have passed, is likely to promise you a worthy or a welcome reception.” “Now God grant it be so, that I rightly hear and duly understand you,” said the young man; while Alice, though she was silent, kept her looks fixed on her father’s face, as if desirous to know whether his meaning was kind towards his nephew, which her knowledge of his character inclined her greatly to doubt. The knight meanwhile darted a sardonic look, first on his nephew, then on his daughter, and proceeded—“I need not, I presume, inform Mr. Markham Everard, that it cannot be our purpose to entertain him, or even to offer him a seat in this poor hut.” “I will attend you most willingly to the Lodge,” said the young gentleman. “I had, indeed, judged you were already there for the evening, and feared to intrude upon you. But if you would permit me, my dearest uncle, to escort my kinswoman and you back to the Lodge, believe me, amongst all which you have so often done of good and kind, you never conferred benefit that will be so dearly prized.”