that he was not alone. The dark object that had frightened his horse
rose slowly from the snug corner it had occupied by the haystack, and a
gruff voice that made the banker thrill to the marrow of his bones,
cried, "Holla, who the devil are you?"

Lame as his horse was, the banker instantly put his foot into the
stirrup; but before he could mount, a heavy gripe was laid on his
shoulder--and turning round with as much fierceness as he could assume,
he saw--what the tone of the voice had already led him to forebode--the
ill-omened and cut-throat features of Luke Darvil.

"Ha! ha! my old annuitant, my clever feelosofer--jolly old boy--how are
you?--give us a fist. Who would have thought to meet you on a rainy
night, by a lone haystack, with a deep ditch on one side, and no
chimney-pot within sight? Why, old fellow, I, Luke Darvil,--I, the
vagabond--I whom you would have sent to the treadmill for being poor,
and calling on my own daughter--I am as rich as you are here--and as
great, and as strong, and as powerful."

And while he spoke, Darvil, who was really an undersized man, seemed to
swell and dilate, till he appeared half a head taller than the shrinking
banker, who was five feet eleven inches without his shoes.

"E-hem!" said the rich man, clearing his throat, which seemed to him
uncommonly husky; "I do not know whether I insulted your poverty, my
dear Mr. Darvil--I hope not; but this is hardly a time for talking--pray
let me mount, and--"

"Not a time for talking!" interrupted Darvil angrily; "it's just the
time to my mind: let me consider,--ay, I told you that whenever we met