Sir David and Mr. Tuke interfered. They had been moderate in their cups; and the latter, at least, was seasoned. “Oh, Charlie!” said the baronet, “get off to bed with you. You’re drunk, man.” “He’s got a face as sour as rennet, Davy. It’s cur-curdled the milk o’ human kideness in me.” This was good for the manling. Mr. Tuke patted him on the back. “There,” he said, “go and sleep it off. The captain gives you good-night.” “And a ring for the hog’s snout to-morrow!” thundered the soldier. “Fie, sir--fie!” whispered the other. “’Tis but a tipsy boy”--and with great ado, he and the baronet made a patch of the peace, and got the squireens outside and on their horses, and saw them ride off swaying. The wind drove with gusts of sleet at them, as they turned tail and fled into the house once more; for the night had bellied up slurred and stormy, and there was a melancholy sound in every keyhole of the hall. They found the soldier standing up grave and lowering; but his eyes took an eager look upon their re-entrance, and he stepped up to his host with an air of impatient apology. “I was an ass to take offence at that pigwash,” said he--“the more so as I _have_ been poor company, I confess; and you, sir” (he turned suddenly upon Tuke), “have been the cause of it.” “I!” exclaimed the visitor, in a voice vibrating all the harmonics of surprise. “You, sir. Blythewood,” said the soldier, turning upon the baronet, “I make no apology for harping upon an old string in your presence. You know my monomania, and the wrack it hath made of my peace. I have waited but for those Jack-puddings to begone, to speak.” Mr. Tuke could only stare in amazement; and “Fire away, old cock!” quoth the master of the house. Then he added: “You’ll take beds here, the two of you, or we shall come to words.” Both gentlemen protested; but the other would not listen, and he ended by carrying his point. “And now,” said Blythewood, “charge your piece--whatever it is--and let fly at our friend; and so to t’other glass.” Captain Luvaine’s eyes had a light of strange trouble in them, and he gnawed his knuckles nervously. “I startled you just now, Mr. Tuke,” he said. “’Twas some words you let fall disturbed me, so that I dropped the book.” “Believe me, sir, I was innocent of designs on your composure.” “I know, I know--that is, of course--how could it be otherwise?” “How, indeed? But I am all at sea.” “They could not have been accidental. No, ’twas impossible. And yet--you uttered the words, sir--‘the Lake of Wine’--there was no mistake. I heard you.” “And what then, Captain Luvaine? Do I deny it?” “No, no. Only--oh, sir! the lady says ‘What mystery?’ and you answer ‘The Lake of Wine.’ Could that be an invention--a mere playful fancy? ’Tis out of reason.” At the first reference to this strange title, Sir David had given a low whistle; and he now came forward and took the soldier by the sleeve.