His eyes shone; he sprang forward and thrust his head far out of the
window, gazing at the old ivy-covered tower as long as it remained
in sight.
"Was Cromwell really once there?" he asked with breathless interest.
"So they say," replied my father, looking with an amused smile at
the face of the questioner, in which eagerness, delight, and
reverence were mingled. "Are you an admirer of the Lord Protector?"
"He is my greatest hero of all," said Derrick fervently. "Do you
think--oh, do you think he possibly can ever have come to
Mondisfield?"
My father thought not, but said there was an old tradition that the
Hall had been attacked by the Royalists, and the bridge over the
moat defended by the owner of the house; but he had no great belief
in the story, for which, indeed, there seemed no evidence.
Derrick's eyes during this conversation were something wonderful to
see, and long after, when we were not actually playing at anything,
I used often to notice the same expression stealing over him, and
would cry out, "There is the man defending the bridge again; I can
see him in your eyes! Tell me what happened to him next!"
Then, generally pacing to and fro in the apple walk, or sitting
astride the bridge itself, Derrick would tell me of the adventures
of my ancestor, Paul Wharncliffe, who performed incredible feats of
valour, and who was to both of us a most real person.
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