Toward morning however, exhaustion overcame all, and he slept long and profoundly. How long indeed he did not know, for he had forgot to wind up his watch; but, at all events, he woke refreshed and calm, his headache gone, and the pain of his hurt ankle so much relieved, that he fancied he could do any thing, and at once sprang out of bed. He instantly found his mistake; for the moment he attempted to set that foot to the ground, he reeled, and would have fallen but for his hold of the bedstead; and, on examining more closely, he found his leg enormously swelled, and bidding fair, as the smuggler had predicted, to confine him to the house for more than one day. Notwithstanding this discovery, he determined to make his way to the window before any one interrupted him, in order to examine the locale, and what was passing without; and by means of the table and the chairs he contrived to effect his purpose. The scene that presented itself was one that may be met with about once every three miles along the greater part of the southern and eastern coasts of England--a small sandy bay, opening out into the wide blue sea, with two or three high cliffs on either hand, and nothing more. In the present instance, however, an object struck the eyes of Henry Beauchamp, which was not without its peculiar interest. It was a small low-rigged cutter, just making her way out to sea, with a full steady wind, and a press of sail. He looked up to the sky, and, as far as he could judge from the position of the sun, concluded that one or two hours must have passed since noon. At the same time, there was no sound of voices below. A lad was seen mending one of the boats on the shore; and a man, in whom he easily distinguished the old smuggler, was standing on the nearest bank, with a glass to his eye, either watching the progress of the cutter, or examining a vessel that could just be seen hull down in the offing. All seemed to imply that those who had brought him thither had effected their escape from England; and after gazing out for a moment, he returned to his bedside, and proceeded to dress himself as well as he could. The gentleman who threaded the Dædalian labyrinth, and slew Mrs. Pasephæ's illegitimate son at the end of it, had not half such a piece of work of it as Henry Beauchamp had to get into his clothes. It is wonderful how much more use one makes of one's foot even in dressing one's self than one knows any thing about; and what would have come of it in the present instance can hardly be divined, had it not so happened that, after Beauchamp had struggled with innumerable difficulties for nearly half an hour, the old smuggler presented himself, as a somewhat rude valet-de-chambre, and saved his guest from martyrdom.