"So," he said to himself, "I am not even to be trusted in the boy's sick-room. Well, that is somewhat hard. No, it is not. The old man is quite right. He knows I am a drunken rascal, and thinks I am not to be trusted in any thing. Hang me if I have not a mind to make him think better of me. But it is of no use: I should only begin again. Why need I begin again at all? Master Ned knows me better than any of them; and he only requires me not to drink when there is any thing important in the wind. He knows I cannot help it at other times. But why cannot I help it at other times, if I can help it then? I can help it if I like; and, by Heaven, I will not drink any more, except when he gives me leave; and I'll ask him never to give me leave. So we will settle the matter that way. I do love that lad, though he gave me a shot in the leg to keep me from running away and disgracing myself. I did not drink one drop last night at the inn, because he told me not. I am mighty sick at my stomach, however. I wish I had a drop of brandy, just to settle it. I have a mind to go out and get just one gill to settle it,--only one gill. No, I won't; for then I should take another, and so forth. It shall not be said that my young master was lying sick and I went and got drunk. Let my stomach take care of itself; and, if it chooses to be sick, it must be so. I wonder if he will die, poor boy. He has a good heart, though he is as hasty as a tinker's cur, and as stern as a general. Marton," he continued, to the good woman who entered seeking something, "how is Master Ned?" "Much the same, Pierrot," answered Marton. "The doctor says there will be no change yet a while." "Marton, I am resolved not to drink any more," said Pierrot, in a solemn tone. "Keep to it," she replied, with a laugh, but evidently with very little confidence. "Why, Pierrot la Grange, for the last ten years you have been forever at the flask. You were a very good young man before that, and well to do; ay, and a handsome man too. I have seldom seen a more personable man than you were then, before you took to that filthy custom of making a beast of yourself; but now your face is all over blotches, and your nose is so red you might fire a cannon with it." "Well, well, you shall see, Marton," rejoined Pierrot. "I have taken a resolution, and fallen upon a plan by which I can keep it, too; and you may tell the syndic that I will drink no more. Why, just now, I thought to go out and get myself some brandy, with a spur rial--as he calls it--which Master Ned gave me, because I am sick at the stomach; but I resisted, and would not stir a step on account of my resolution." "Ah! are you sick at the stomach?" said Marton, quietly. "Suppose I get you a little cloves and strong waters."