And who should arrive at night, with all his trunks, or at least a
considerable number of them, and his books and rattletraps, but honest,
simple Dan Loftus. The news was true about his young charge. He had died
of fever at Malaga, and Dick Devereux was at last a step, and a long
one--nearer to the title. So Dan was back again in his old garret.
Travel had not educated him in the world's ways. In them he was the same
queer, helpless tyro. And his costume, though he had a few handsome
articles--for, travelling with a sprig of nobility, he thought it but
right and seemed to dress accordingly--was on that account, perhaps,
only more grotesque than ever. But he had acquired mountains of that
lore in which he and good Doctor Walsingham delighted. He had
transcribed old epitaphs and translated interminable extracts from
archives, and bought five Irish manuscripts, all highly illustrative of
that history on which he and the doctor were so pleasantly engaged. It
was too late that night to go up to the Elms; but he longed to unpack
his trunkful of manuscripts, and to expound to his beloved doctor the
treasures he had amassed.
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