"Ah, Tim, do you recollect the way I used to brew for poor Sir Piers, with a bunch of red currants at the bottom of the glass? And then to think that, after all, I should be left out of his funeral--it's the height of barbarity. Tim, this rum of yours is poor stuff--there's no punch worth the trouble of drinking, except whisky-punch. A glass of right potheen, straw-color, peat-flavor, ten degrees over proof, would be the only thing to drown my cares. Any such thing in the cellar? There used to be an odd bottle or so, Tim--in the left bin, near the door." "I've a notion there be," returned Timothy. "I'll try the bin your honor mentions, and if I can lay hands upon a bottle you shall have it, you may depend." The butler departed, and Titus, emulating Mr. Coates, who had already enveloped himself, like Juno at the approach of Ixion, in a cloud, proceeded to light his pipe. Luke, meanwhile, had been left alone, without light. He had much to meditate upon, and with naught to check the current of his thoughts, he pensively revolved his present situation and future prospects. The future was gloomy enough--the present fraught with danger. And now that the fever of excitement was passed, he severely reproached himself for his precipitancy. His mind, by degrees, assumed a more tranquil state; and, exhausted with his great previous fatigue, he threw himself upon the floor of his prison-house, and addressed himself to slumber. The noise he made induced Coates to enter the room, which he did with a pistol in each hand, followed by Titus with a pipe and candle; but finding all safe the sentinels retired. "One may see, with half an eye, that you're not used to a feather-bed, my friend," said Titus, as the door was locked. "By the powers, he's a tall chap, anyhow--why his feet almost touch the door. I should say that room was a matter of six feet long, Mr. Coates." "Exactly six feet, sir." "Well, that's a good guess. Hang that ugly rascal, Tim; he's never brought the whisky. But I'll be even with him to-morrow. Couldn't you just see to the prisoner for ten minutes, Mr. Coates?" "Not ten seconds. I shall report you, if you stir from your post." Here the door was opened, and Tim entered with the whisky. "Arrah! by my soul, Tim, and here you are at last--uncork it, man, and give us a thimbleful--blob! there goes the stopper--here's a glass"--smacking his lips--"whist, Tim, another drop--stuff like this will never hurt a body. Mr. Coates, try it--no--I thought you'd be a man of more taste." "I must limit you to a certain quantity," replied Coates, "or you will not be fit to keep guard--another glass must be the extent of your allowance." "Another glass! and do you think I'll submit to any such iniquitous proposition?" "Beg pardon, gentlemen," said Tim, "but her ladyship desires me to tell you both, that she trusts you will keep the strictest watch upon the prisoner. I have the same message also from Sir Ranulph." "Do you hear that?" said Coates.