summer was clothing the giant trees, and the primroses and wood sorrel
were carpeting the ground, which was yet brown with the fallen leaves of
the past autumn. The slanting sunbeams were quivering through the
gnarled tree trunks, and the birds were singing rapturously overhead, as
Raymond bent his steps along the trodden path which led to the nearest
village; but he suddenly stopped short with a start of surprise on
encountering the intent gaze of a pair of fierce black eyes, and finding
himself face to face with a stranger he had never seen in his life before.

Never seen? No; and yet he knew the man perfectly, and felt that he
changed colour as he stood gazing upon the handsome malevolent face that
was singularly repulsive despite its regular features and bold beauty.
In a moment he recollected where he had seen those very lineaments
portrayed with vivid accuracy, even to the sinister smile and the gleam
in the coal-black eyes.

Roger possessed a gift of face drawing that would in these days make the
fortune of any portrait painter. He had many times drawn with a piece of
rough charcoal pictures of the monks as he saw them in the refectory,
the refined and hollow face of John, and the keen and powerful
countenance of Father Paul. So had he also portrayed for Raymond the
features of the two Sanghursts, father and son. The youth knew perfectly
the faces of both; and as he stopped short, gazing at this stranger with
wide-open eyes, he knew in a moment that Roger's malevolent foe was nigh
at hand, and that the sensitive and morbidly acute faculties of the boy
had warned him of the fact, when he could by no possibility have known
it by any other means.

Sanghurst stood looking intently at this bright-faced boy, a smile on
his lips, a frown in his eyes.