Just before twelve the old man took his lanthorn, went to the door, and looked out; stood for a while, and then, with an activity not to be expected of one of his years, he walked sharply and silently in the direction of the churchyard, keeping a keen lookout for interlopers. But his walk beneath the glittering stars was uninterrupted, and he made his way silently to the back of the church, looked about him, and, seeing no one, unlocked the iron gate and the mausoleum door, and then turned to wait. But as he turned, he started, for a hand was laid upon his shoulder. "Why, doctor, I didn't hear you come." "I was sitting there waiting," said North. "Quick!" He pressed the door, and looked right into the dark place, where he had not been since Tom Candlish was lifted out and placed by the roadside on the night of the encounter; while now it seemed to the sexton that his companion was beset by a feverish energy and desire to continue his task. "All right, doctor--all right! Wait till I get a light," grumbled the old man, after he had closed the door. "That's it. There you are. Brought the cordle?" "Yes." "You won't want me, and I'm a bit tired and wearied out to-night. Ha, that's it! Good stuff, doctor. Thankye, doctor. Hah-h-h!" He tossed off the potent dram that was handed to him, and gave back the silver cup, which fitted upon the end of the doctor's little flask. Then, quite as a matter of habit, he went to the ledge where he had so often sat, and, after muttering for a few minutes, fell off into an easy sleep. North had stood motionless after lighting his shaded lamp, evidently deep in thought; but a heavy breathing from the corner of the solemn place roused him, and he lifted the lanthorn, crossed to the sleeper, and held the light to his face. "Asleep!" he muttered, returning to the great stone slab, and setting down the light. "What's that?" he cried sharply; and, starting back, he looked wildly about the place. "How absurd!" he muttered, after satisfying himself that they were alone. "Want of sleep. My nerves are shaken, and this incessant pain seems too much for me. But I will succeed. She shall see my success, and learn that I am not a man to be cast aside and crushed by her. Yes, I will succeed. It cannot be too late." He seized the white sheet that covered the subject of his study, but instead of drawing it gently aside, as was his wont, he gave it a sharp snatch, lifted the lamp, and gazed down, thinking of what steps he should take next. "So many days since," he muttered; "so many days. It cannot be too late. Now to make up for lost time."