“What a grand place for thinking!” said Richard to himself.

But in truth Richard had hardly yet begun to think. He only followed the thoughts that came to him—he never said to them, Come. Neither, when ideas came, did he keep them, and make them walk up and down before him till he saw what they meant. He did not search out their pedigree, get them to give an account of themselves, show what they could do, or, in short, be themselves to him.

The house of Mortgrange seemed to Richard the oldest house he had ever seen, and it moved him strangely. He said to himself that the man must be happy who owned such a house, lived in it, and did what he liked with it.

The road they had taken brought them to the back of the Hall, as the people on the estate called the house. The blacksmith went to a side door, and asked if he and his grandson might have a look at the place. The man said he would see, and, returning presently, invited them to walk in.

Knowing his grandson’s passion, Simon’s main thought in taking him was to bring him to the library, with its ten thousand volumes. Therefore, as soon as they were in the great hall, he asked the servant whether they might not see the library. The man left them again, once more to make inquiry.

The grand old hall where they stood was fitter for the house of a great noble than a mere baronet. But, then, the family was older than any noble family in the county, and the poor title granted to a foolish ancestor was no great feather in the cap of the Lestranges. The house itself was older than any baronetcy, for no part of it was later than the time of Elizabeth. It was of fine stone and of great size. The hall was nearly sixty feet in height, with three windows on one side and a huge one at the end were of the appearance of church-windows. Mid-height along the end opposite the great window ran a gallery.

To Richard’s sudden terror as he stood absorbed in the stateliness of the place, an organ in the gallery burst out playing. He looked up but could see only the tops of the pipes. The sounds rolled along the roof, reverberated from the solid walls, and crept about the corners, and the soul of the place throbbed in his ears the words of a poem centuries old, which he had read a day or two before leaving London:

Erthe owte of erthe as wondirly wroghte,
Erthe hase getyn one erthe a dignyte of noghte,
Erthe appone erthe hase sett alle his thoughte,
How that erthe appone erthe may be heghe broghte.

As he listened, his eyes settled upon a suit of armour in position, and he stood gazing upon it with fascination.

Just then the servant returned.

“Mr. Lestrange is in the library, and will see Mr. Armour,” he said.