“Alas!” the old man heav’d a deep sigh, and with that began to hobble across the yard. We troop’d after, wondering. At the house door he turn’d— “Sirs, there is cold roasted capons, an’ a ham, an’ radishes in choice profusion for such as be not troubled wi’ the wind: an’ cordial wines—alack the day!” He squeez’d a frosty tear from his one eye, and led us to a large bare hall, hung round with portraits; where was a table spread with a plenty of victuals, and horn-handled knives and forks laid beside plates of pewter; and at the table a man in black, eating. He had straight hair and a sallow face; and look’d up as we enter’d, but, groaning, in a moment fell to again. “Eat, sirs,” the old servitor exhorted us: “alas! that man may take nothing out o’ the world!” I know not who of us was most taken aback. But noting Delia’s sad wondering face, as her eyes wander’d round the neglected room and rested on the tatter’d portraits, I lost patience. “Our business is with Master Hannibal Tingcomb,” said I sharply. The straight-hair’d man look’d up again, his mouth full of ham. “Hush!”—he held his fork up, and shook his head sorrowfully: and I wonder’d where I had seen him before. “Hast thou an angel’s wings?” he ask’d. “Why, no, sir; but the devil’s own boots—as you shall find if I be not answer’d.” “Young man—young man,” broke in the one-eyed butler: “our minister is a good minister, an’ speaks roundabout as such: but the short is, that my master is dead, an’ in his coffin.” “The mortal part,” corrected the minister, cutting another slice. “Aye, the immortal is a-trippin’ it i’ the New Jeroosalem: but the mortal was very lamentably took wi’ a fit, three days back—the same day, young man, as thou earnest wi’ thy bloody threats.” “A fit?” “Aye, sir, an’ verily—such a fit as thou thysel’ witness’d. ’Twas the third attack—an’ he cried, ‘Oh!’ he did, an’ ‘Ah!’—just like that. ‘Oh!’ an’ then ‘Ah!’ Such were his last dyin’ speech. ‘Dear Master,’ says I, ‘there’s no call to die so hard:’ but might so well ha’ whistled, for he was dead as nails. A beautiful corpse, sirs, dang my buttons!” “Show him to us.” “Willingly, young man.” He led the way to the very room where Master Tingcomb and I had held our interview. As before, six candles were burning there: but the table was push’d into a corner, and now their light fell on a long black coffin, resting on trestles in the centre of the room. The coffin was clos’d, and studded with silver nails; on the lid was a silver plate bearing these words written—“_Hannibal Tingcomb_, MDCXLIII.,” with a text of Scripture below. “Why have you nail’d him down?” I asked. “Now where be thy bowels, young man, to talk so unfeelin’? An’ where be thy experience, not to know the ways o’ thy blessed dead in summer time?” “When do you bury him?” “To-morrow forenoon. The spot is two mile from here.” He blinked at me, and hesitated for a minute. “Is it your purpose, sirs, to attend?”