"Sir," said the servant, "a lad has just brought it from S----," naming a
village about four miles distant; "and says he is to wait for an answer.
He was ordered to ride as fast as possible."

With some impatience Godolphin took up the note; but the moment his eye
rested on the writing, it fell from his hands; his cheek, his lips, grew
as white as death; his heart seemed to refuse its functions; it was
literally as if life stood still for a moment, as by the force of a sudden
poison. With a strong effort he recovered himself, tore open the note,
and read as follows:

"Percy Godolphin, the hour has arrived-once more we shall meet. I summon
you, fair love, to that meeting--the bed of death. Come! Lucilla
Volktman."

"Don't alarm the countess," said Godolphin to his servant, in a very low,
calm voice; "bring my horse to the postern, and send the bearer of this
note to me."

The messenger appeared--a rough country lad, of about eighteen or twenty.

"You brought this note?"

"I did, your honour."

"From whom?"

"Why, a sort of a strange lady as is lying at the 'Chequers,' and not
expected to live. She be mortal bad, sir, and do run on awesome."