He shortly returned with wine, which I drank. After which I lay down, not thinking of going to sleep, but rather to wait and watch. Presently, however, a drowsy feeling came over me, which I felt no inclination to resist, and before long I became unconscious. When I awoke, it was dark. I listened, but could hear no sound. I went into the chapel, and found it empty; I called aloud, but got no reply. Then I realized what had happened. While I had been asleep Uncle Anthony had escaped with the maid, and both were doubtless many miles away. CHAPTER XIII. THE WISDOM OF GOSSIPING WITH AN INNKEEPER. I had been beaten. I knew it, and the fact maddened me. The old hermit and the maid had divined the thoughts in my mind. In all probability the wine I had drunk was drugged. Thus while I was asleep, they had gone away, leaving me alone on the lonely rock. Which way had they gone? I knew not. They in the silence of the night had left me, leaving me in entire ignorance. I looked from the chapel window, and saw a vast tract of country around me, for the moon had risen high in the heavens; then, yielding to the impulse of the moment, I climbed to the highest peak on the great mass of stone. From this point I could see far in all directions, but no signs of life were visible. I could see Roche church tower among the trees, I could see the little village near. For the rest, nothing was in sight save vast stretches of moorland. Here and there was a cultivated field, but mostly the country-side was barren and forsaken. I listened, but all was silent. The night was very calm, save for a sighing wind which as it entered a valley near made a low moaning sound. For a moment a superstitious dread laid hold on me. I remembered the story I had been told years before. It was said that the last heir of the Tregarrick family, on whose lands the rock stood, became weary of life, built the chapel in which old Anthony had taken up his abode, and called it St. Michael's Chapel. Here he lived many years and died in sorrow. Rumour also had it that Tregeagle's spirit, that ogre of Cornish childhood, haunted the rock and the moors, and often breathed forth his sorrow in sighs and moans. But I mastered my fears by an effort. I remembered how I had been beaten, and anger drove all other feelings away. The last heir of the Tregarricks and the Spirit of Tregeagle was nothing to me, living or dead.