Ridley was not there. For even then, while the priest was crossing
the hall, a party of spearmen, with a young knight at their head,
rode to the gate and demanded entrance.
The frightened porter hurried to call Master Ridley, who, instead of
escorting the priest with the Host to his dying lady, had to go to
the gate, where he recognised Sir Leonard Copeland, far from dead, in
very different guise from that in which he had been brought to the
castle before. He looked, however, awed, as he said, bending his
head -
"Is it sooth, Master Ridley? Is death beforehand with me?"
"My old lady is in extremis, sir," replied Ridley. "Poor soul, she
hath never spoken since she heard of my lord's death and his son's."
"The younger lad? Lives here?" demanded Copeland. "Is it as I have
heard?"
"Aye, sir. The child passed away on the Eve of St. Luke. I have my
lady's orders," he added reluctantly, "to open the castle to you, as
of right."
"It is well," returned Sir Leonard. Then, turning round to the
twenty men who followed him, he said, "Men-at-arms, as you saw and
heard, there is death here. Draw up here in silence. This good
esquire will see that you have food and fodder for the horses. Kemp,
Hardcastle," to his squires, "see that all is done with honour and
respect as to the lady of the castle and mine. Aught unseemly shall
be punished."
Wherewith he dismounted, and entered the narrow little court, looking
about him with a keen, critical, soldierly eye, but speaking with
low, grave tones.
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