"Who are you?" demanded Sir Norman, drawing out his sword, and
wrenching himself free from his unseen companion.
"Ah! it is you, is it? I thought so," said a not unknown voice.
"I have been calling you till I am hoarse, and at last gave it
up, and started after you in despair. What are you doing here?"
"You, Ormiston!" exclaimed Sir Norman, in the last degree
astonished. "How - when - what are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here? that's more to the purpose. Down flat
on your face, with your head stuck through that hole. What is
below there, anyway?"
"Never mind," said Sir Norman, hastily, who, for some reason
quite unaccountable to himself, did not wish Ormiston to see.
"There's nothing therein particular, but a lower range of vaults.
Do you intend telling me what has brought you here?"
"Certainly; the very fleetest horse I could find in the city."
"Pshaw! You don't say so?" exclaimed Sir Norman, incredulously.
"But I presume you had some object in taking such a gallop? May
I ask what? Your anxious solicitude on my account, very likely?"
"Not precisely. But, I say, Kingsley, what light is that shining
through there? I mean to see.
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