"Tut, tut, man. Bed is the place for you to-night, and not a horse's saddle. Already your eyes shine like candles kindled at both ends. Six-and-thirty-hours it is, by your own showing, since you've closed 'em; and you know what Will of Warwick--and he speaks sound sense, mind you, does Will--of Warwick; as good as any of your modish Sedleys, and Shadwells, and--and--'sleep, sleep, Nature's'--how does it go? Why, to be sure--'Nature's soft--nurse.' Come, Master Lee, how goes it? You should know. By my faith, but you should. Ay--so it runs--'How have I frighted thee.' Marry, come up! What's next? 'That thou--no more shouldst weigh mine eyelids down'--and--and--" But then, like a wise physician who puts faith in his own prescription, Master Alworth's senses sank steeped in forgetfulness, his head drooped gently among the cushions, and a profound snore fell upon the silence. Lawrence's face grew dark with vexation. Could anything be more tiresome and inopportune? The church clock struck eleven. A fearfully late hour for those good old times, when "early to bed, and early to rise" made everybody "so healthy, and wealthy, and wise." "Master Alworth," said Lee gently, though he was biting his lip all the while with impatience. "Master Alworth, by your leave--I will bid you good-night." A second and deeper snore was the response. "And farewell," shouted Lee. "Eyelids down; eyelids--down," murmured the sleeper. [Sidenote: How to save the King?] "Nay, but begone I must," muttered Lawrence, starting up and pushing back his chair, while his eyes despairingly contemplated his slumbering host, until suddenly a light flashed into them. "Let's see what a shake will do," he went on to himself, approaching Alworth's chair, and suiting his action to his words with no gentle hand. It produced no effect beyond an angry snort of remonstrance from the sleeper, who turned in his chair only to settle more comfortably. "What is to be done?" ejaculated Lawrence, casting desperate glances towards the door, as if he intended making a run for it. "Another half hour--a quarter, even, and--" Something which fell with a faint jingle and a clash to the floor at his feet, interrupted his speculations. He stooped to pick it up. It was Master Alworth's gold chain, whose elaborate fastening had apparently missed touching home in his drowsy attempts to clasp it. "Adieu, then," he said, placing the chain noiselessly beside his host's plate, and wafting him a kiss from his finger-tips; "for I must be taking French leave, if you will not be having an English one," and he turned to escape noiselessly from the room. The first step he took, however, brought his foot down upon some small hard object. He picked it up. It was the key, which must have slipped from the goldsmith's chain when it glided from his neck to the cushions of the chair, and thence, as he had turned himself about, to the floor. [Sidenote: Mad fancies]