He now threw his whole thoughts into a consideration of what was to be done with his intoxicated companion. That he had been in some sort of communication with Jacob Gray he could not doubt, and moreover, he shrewdly suspected that the destruction of Britten was the object hinted at by Sheldon—that, however, was a far inferior object in Learmont’s mind to the destruction of Gray himself, and the possession of the boy he held in his power. Therefore was it that Learmont fell into a train of anxious and horrid thoughts as to whether Sheldon after he had left him might not, by his relation of having brought some one to his secret abode, alarm the cautious Jacob Gray into an immediate removal, and so baffle him, Learmont, again. If there be any crime more awful than another, it is a cool and deliberate murder founded upon calculation; but Learmont was just the man to commit such an act, and while the thoughtless Sheldon was hanging upon his arm and murmuring disjointed snatches of songs in praise of good fellowship and glorious wine, Learmont half resolved upon his death. “This drunken idiot can be of no use to me,” he reasoned with himself, “because I could never depend upon him; but he may, if I let him escape, warn Gray, and I lose the rare chance that kind Fortune has thrown so strangely in my way. He must die.” They now passed the ancient entrance to the Bishop’s Palace; and entered upon the well-known walk along the banks of the Thames, which was then much more shadowed by lofty trees than it is at present; and although those trees, in consequence of the season of the year, were now leafless, yet their gigantic trunks cast broad and obscuring shadows between them and the wall of the Bishop’s garden. A cold piercing air blew from the Thames, and Sheldon shuddered as he remarked,— “I say—my—my good fellow, the—sooner we get to some place where we can have this same ale, and—and sack—and Rhenish—the better—on my faith it’s c—c—cold.” “Come this way, close to the palace wall,” said Learmont, “and the old trees will save us from the cool air that blows across the river.” So saying, he led his doomed companion close to the ancient wall, then he paused and listened attentively, in case any one should be within hearing; all was as still as the grave—not the most distant sound indicative of human life, met his ears. “He must die!” muttered Learmont. “You may say it’s cold,” remarked Sheldon; “w—w—what are you waiting for— “Ha! Ha! Ha! Who would not drink When, the cup is brimming over, Be it Rhenish—be it—sack— Or burning old—Oc—Oc—October! “that’s a—b—b—brave song—a ex—extraordinary brave song—a—w—w—wonderful song.” Learmont laid his hand on his sword as he said— “There is more light now, Master Sheldon. Look at me.” As he spoke he raised his cap, which previously had been drawn close over his eyes, and raised himself to his full gaunt height. The waterman fixed his wondering eyes upon him, and muttered:—