Faint and grey the summer morning was stealing down between the lofty houses of the narrow alley and straggling through the rusty and cobweb-woven gratings of the windows, into the outer chamber of the alehouse, when the gunner awoke and started up, with heavy eyes and an aching head. The apartment was dark and cold: the _gathering peat_ was smouldering on the hearth, and a full minute elapsed before he remembered where he was, and how he came to be there; then the two pewter flagons and the ale-slopped table recalled his debauch over-night with some one--a stranger--gaily attired in scarlet and velvet; and instinctively diving a hand into his pouch, he found the lady's letter gone! Master Wad became sober in a moment. Starting from his seat he examined the pouch; shook it, turned it outside in; he then opened his gaberdine and examined the lining of his bonnet; then he searched all about the chamber, and became convinced that the letter for his captain was lost--irretrievably lost. "May I drink bilge, but it's clean awa'!" said he, and stood for a time bewildered; "and what shall I say to Robert Barton, or to the winsome lady who gied it, wi' this handsome chain--that I've been drunk--drunk as a Sluys pilot! Oh, Willie Wad, Willie Wad--dool be on thee for this." The gunner sat down for a moment, and his honest heart was swollen by the mingled emotions of shame and anger. He prayed for help to St. Barbara, who was the patron of all cannoniers, and whose altar stood in St. Mary's Church close by; but she probably turned a deaf ear to him, for praying did not mend the matter; then starting up, he stormed and swore roundly, shouting the while on Tibby Tarvet, whom he roused without ceremony from her box-bed in one of the lofty garrets, and whom he threatened with the vengeance of the Baron Bailie, and all the terrors of the Burgh laws enacted "anent evil ale-wives," if his lost letter was not forthcoming. Then Tib stormed in turn, and reminded him that he too was liable to a fine, or six hours' detention in the iron _jougs_, for being intoxicated in an ale-house after ten o'clock at night,--for such was the law. Finding thus that the hostess might in the end have the best of the dispute, the poor gunner had to smother his wrath and "sheer off." CHAPTER XLIX. THE KING'S WARK. "Virtue!--to be good and just--- Every heart when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mixed with cunning sparks of hell!"