“You will speak to your sister, and see that this young woman, whom I am taking into my service, is fitly lodged and provided for. To-morrow I shall assign her her duties. In the meantime she is to meet with every sympathy and consideration. The man, also, you must accommodate with suitable quarters. You know my interest in the girl, and the circumstances of her misfortune. I leave her proper reception to your charge.” Not another word he said; but when they had been admitted by an amazed wench, he nodded gravely to the little group, and turned into his own dining-hall. Here, as if his opening of the door had released a spring, Luvaine came at him like a Jack-of-the-clockhouse. “This is well,” he cried in a high manner of sarcasm--“this is well and hospitable to quit affairs of state for the entertainment of a poor guest or so!” The wine was still on the table, and it was evident the soldier had had free recourse to it for the smothering of his intolerable suspense. His thin hair was rumpled; his eyes bloodshot; a slumberous demon of fury seemed to struggle in him for wakefulness. Flung into an elbow-chair by the hearth, Sir David discordantly acknowledged the potency of his own cups. No doubt he had drunk himself to sleep to escape the other’s company. “You have some title to offence, sir,” said the returned host. “You have been acquainted with the cause of my absence, I believe; but I think no words of mine will persuade you to exonerate me from blame. Still, I make you my apologies for what was virtually inevitable.” “Well, sir, well. And you are prepared, I presume, to take up the thread where you dropped it?” “Oh! I cry you mercy, Captain Luvaine. What would you have, sir? The night is far advanced; I have had an exhausting experience of travel. On my honour, I must recuperate for the next move.” “Mr. Tuke, do you mean to tell me, with all deliberateness, that you purpose resting upon my sickness--upon my agony of suspense, sir, counting the question of my reason as nothing compared with your little bodily discomfort?” “If you will put it crudely, sir; why, so must I. I refuse to act further until I have rested; and you will do well to school your reason into a little consideration for others.” “You _must_ take note that this is a matter affecting my very last interests.” “As the necessity for sleep affects mine. Restored, I shall be of infinitely more service to you in that respect than I could possibly be now.” The soldier bowed. So much of the discipline of his profession remained to him. But it seemed almost a murderous demon that dictated the courtesy. He walked towards the door, and turned glowering. “I must not gainsay you,” he said; “but--but--may God never curse you with the torment to which you are wantonly condemning me.”