One occasion, in particular, he called to mind. It happened a year previously. He had gone on board the brig one evening, and had seen a number of boxes brought up from the hold and deposited on deck. On the following morning he had been called on board again, when he found the boxes gone; yet he knew that no team had left the landing, and that no boat had gone up the river. But it was all clear now. The goods had been landed at night at the foot of the crag, and taken up to the cave. When the secret had been first discovered by the smugglers he could not imagine; nor could he tell by whom, though he strongly suspected that Ralph Tryon had been the first to make use of it as a depository of contraband, and, perhaps, for pirated goods. Having discovered so much, and having further determined that the space ahead was wrapped in total darkness, Percy concluded to leave further explorations to another and more favorable opportunity. Furthermore, he determined that he would acquaint the earl with the discovery he had made and leave future proceedings to his direction. It would be proper so to do, and it would be right. Thus thinking he turned about and started to retrace his steps. He had gone but a short distance on his return when his eye caught an object he had not before seen. The fact was, his eyes had become used to the dim light, and he saw things more distinctly. Standing on the stone bottom, just under the head of one of the casks--a cask that had been set up on two small boxes--he espied a drinking cup. He stooped and picked it up and made sure it was of silver and heavy at that. He further observed that in the head of the cask, close to the lower chine, was a wooden faucet. The fancy possessed him to see what the cask contained; so, stooping down, he gave the tap of the faucet a turn, and speedily a liquid trickled out. He gave another turn and held the cup under it. The first drawn he used to rinse the drinking-vessel with, and with it filled a second time he arose and stepped to where he had more light. The liquid, as the fumes had told him, was wine, and there could be no mistaking its character or quality. It was old port, very strong, yet smooth as oil. It must have been old when first deposited in its present place of rest, and now the taster decided it to be the finest wine of the kind he had ever put to his lips. Being well assured that no harmful ingredient could have found its way into the cask, he drank the potion and felt the better for it, but he wanted no more. Much wine of that quality would give to his head a buzzing not at all desirable.