A tall fellow, his face flushed with the wine he had drunk, was roaring out a wanton love song, his fellows keeping time to the tune with their glasses upon the board. He finished amidst a storm of cheers and applause. Far down the table one of the men had already fallen forward upon the board, overcome by the wine that he had poured down. A feeling of anxiety came over me; what were not the rogues capable of, when later in the night they should be crazed by the liquor that they had drunk, with nothing to hold them in check except the fear of their chief, and he was but one man, no matter how resolute and determined? What could he do against two hundred and fifty drunken, crazed wretches, hardened to every scene of misery and woe, who feared neither God nor man? Would they not, when they had reached the pitch of frenzy, turn upon Oliver and myself, and vent their fury upon us? For myself, I cared not, but I feared for the boy. DeNortier must have seen the thought upon my face as I turned to him, for he spoke immediately. "Have no fear," he said. "I have often had such revels before, and no harm came of it; my men know my hand too well to attempt to anger me." "For myself, I fear not," I answered. "My only fear was for the boy; I would not have him harmed." And I turned my head to look at Oliver, who with wide eyes was surveying the scene before him. "Thou needst not worry," he replied; "he is as safe as though he were in his father's house." "Where is the priest?" I asked. "It is strange that he is not here. I would have thought that he would be the first to come." The Count smiled. "I looked to see him here too," he answered, "but perhaps he would not come for fear that thou wouldst kill him. He fears thee as though thou wert the foul fiend himself," and he finished with a laugh. "He has good cause to," I said grimly. "If I had but given him his deserts, he would have been now where no revelry could disturb him." "He is a strange fellow," DeNortier said musingly, as though half to himself, stroking his pointed black beard. "I picked him up in London, five years ago; he had been expelled from the monastery for drunkenness, and was adrift without chart or compass, when I discovered him. But he has well requited me for my trouble, for he is a useful fellow, and true as steel to me." I looked at him; it might be that I could win him to my side, or if I could but make him distrust Dunraven, it would be a good night's work. "Be not so sure of that," I answered. He started and peered at me, a look of suspicion upon his face. "Why dost thou say that?" he cried. "Dost know aught of what thou speakest?" I leaned back in my chair, and regarded him with a cold smile. "Am I a child, that I speak of what I know not of?" I said. The look of suspicion deepened upon his face; then there came another, a look of anger.