When Ralph used to bring his prisoner a draught of wine, he would sometimes, if in a particularly good humour, condescend to stay for a few minutes and help him to partake of it. On these occasions Maxwell, by a studiously quiet and even languid demeanour, contrived to throw his jailer completely off his guard. One day he requested the wine might be left with him to cheer his solitude when his agreeable friend was gone; another time he complained of indisposition, but thought he might relish a cup towards nightfall. By degrees he collected a Scottish pint or so of strong red wine in a stone jar that he had begged might be applied to the purpose. The weather was very hot; even in a dungeon its inmate could tell that the summer sun was glowing bright and fierce without. Old Ralph arrived, according to custom, with his prisoner’s afternoon meal, and sat himself down on the stone floor like a man thoroughly overcome with his exertions. ‘Take a draught of wine, man,’ said Maxwell, pointing to the jar; ‘’t the coolest place in the castle here, and by St Andrew the prisoner hath the best of it to-day.’ The old man smiled grimly; then he took a hearty pull, as desired, and set the vessel down with a sigh of great satisfaction. ‘An old man’s bluid aye wants warmin’,’ said he, looking pensively into the vessel the while; ‘but I’ve kent it far hotter ower sea. When I was in Flanders wi’ Norman Leslie, ye ken;--aye! he was a wild lad, Norman, but a bra’ soldier, fair sir, a bra’ soldier as ever belted on a brand!--aweel, whan I was in Flanders wi’ Norman----;’ and forthwith the old man embarked upon a long story of which gallant Norman Leslie was the hero, moistening his narrative at frequent intervals with draughts of the strong red wine, and Maxwell watched with strung nerves and beating heart, how his eye grew dimmer and his speech more laboured as the tale progressed and the contents of the vessel waned. Nevertheless the door was locked on the inside, and the jailer’s fingers kept an instinctive grasp upon his keys. Once, catching Maxwell’s eye fixed on these implements, he shifted them suddenly into the hand farthest from his prisoner, although in the act he interrupted himself in an elaborate description of a certain blue velvet surcoat, by which Norman Leslie set much store, and did not again recover the thread of his recollections until he had discovered that the wine was done, and it was time for him to be gone. But it was obviously necessary to lull his suspicions and induce him to remain a few minutes longer. ‘I should like to hear how that surcoat was finished and embroidered,’ said Maxwell, with an affectation of interest. ‘The time of my release is drawing near,’ he added, ‘and when I go out I should wish to have one of the same colour and conceit.’ He spoke in so matter-of-fact a tone that old Ralph was thrown completely off his guard.