I know not how it was that I rose to a jesting temper, now that the worst had come to me. Perhaps that was the reason, or it may be my pleasure in saving Bess from further torment raised me to a jocund spirit, or the look I saw on the old earl's face, when he heard Boswell's confession, put heart into me, but truly I was in better cheer than I had been for many a day. I knew well enough the scope of the earl's authority, and how he might override the law in his black vengeance, but I was nowise daunted. I could have sung a ballad, if my lips had not trembled with the cold. About noon, Master Pennington entered my dungeon, accompanied by two serving-men, who brought food and wine, and a truss of straw and blankets. "His lordship is liberal," said I. "You owe your provision to the former steward," answered the secretary. "He still has authority, though past service, and charged me to say that his rheumatic joints forbid his coming to you, but whatever a bedridden old man can do shall be done on your behalf." "The kind old man! I pray you give him thanks for me. I owe Master Wintringham gratitude for many a favour in bygone days." Three times a day, good food was brought to my dungeon by a serving-man, but the half-friendly secretary did not come again for days, and the servitors could not, or would not, tell me news of any kind. My condition, so far as bodily comfort went, would have been tolerable, but for lack of warmth. I paced the floor, slapped my shoulders, held boxing bouts with an invisible adversary, jumped till I had no breath left, all to get me some heat into my body, able to think of nothing but that I was like to die of cold. Of nights I wrapped the coverlets tightly round me, and burrowed in the straw, but could not sleep for shivering. After a while, the rigorous weather abated somewhat, or I became hardened to it, though it was November. But I was now to suffer no less by thinking. My gamesome temper had soon left me, and I have no words for a description of the heaviness which followed. I knew it was in vain to revolve thoughts of escape, for watch was kept continually, and I had no means to enlarge the long, narrow slit in the wall that served to give me light and air. I could do nothing but sit wondering and waiting miserably, for such was the strange commotion in my brain, that my prayers for deliverance brought me no hope or consolation. So I passed a fortnight, and then the secretary appeared again to summon me to the presence of the earl, who lay on a couch, looking worn and feeble, his hands trembling as if he had no control of them. Behind his couch stood a youth, whom at first I did not know, not having seen him since he was a child. He was the earl's heir now, Lord Butterwick by proper title, but in our country usage, Lord Sheffield. He inclined his head to me, saying, "Be seated, Mr. Vavasour."'