"That's a pity," said Sharples; "because if you persist in your determination, the consequences to yourself may be unpleasant. However, the court wishes to deal very leniently with you, in consideration of past services, and therefore I am commissioned to offer you a choice between two things.--Officer! Bring forward the `peacemaker.'" Upon this, a man stepped forward, uncorked a bottle of spirits, and placed it on the stone in front of the lantern. "Saint Foster," proceeded his pretended judge, "we earnestly exhort you to lift this bottle of spirits to your lips, and, having taken a hearty swig thereof, to say after me, `Long life and prosperity to free-thought and good fellowship.' If you will do this we shall be fully satisfied, and shall all part good friends." "And if I refuse?" asked the other. "Oh! There'll be no compulsion--we are not going to force you to drink. This is `Liberty Hall;' only, you must submit to the alternative." "And what may that be?" "Oh! Just to carry home with you a little of our ointment, as a token of our kind regards.--Officer! Bring forward the ointment." A general gruff titter ran round the vault as one of the men placed beside the bottle a jar with a brush in it and a bag. "My worthy friend," proceeded the former speaker, "that jar is full of ointment, vulgarly called tar, and that little bag contains feathers. Now, if you positively refuse to drink the toast I have just named in spirits, we shall be constrained to anoint you all over from head to foot with our ointment, and then to sprinkle you with the feathers; in so doing, we shall be affording an amusing spectacle to the inhabitants of Crossbourne, and shall be doing yourself a real kindness, by furnishing you with abundant means of `feathering your own nest.'" A roar of discordant laughter followed this speech. Then there was a pause, and a deathlike silence, while all waited for Foster's answer. For a few moments he attempted no reply; then he said, slowly and sadly: "I know it will be of no use for me to say what I think of the utter baseness of the man who has enticed me here, and now acts the part of my judge. You have me in your power, and must work your will on me, for I will never consent to drink the toast proposed to me. But I warn you that--" At this moment a shrill whistle was heard by every one in the vault, and then the sound of shouts outside, and the tramping of feet.--"The game's up!" cried one of the men with the blackened faces; "every one for himself!" and a rush was made for the steps. But it was too late: a strong guard of police fully armed had taken their stand at the top of the stair, and escape was impossible, for there was no other outlet from the vault. As each man emerged he was seized and handcuffed--all except Foster, whose unblackened face told at once that he was not one of the guilty party, and who was grasped warmly by the hand by Thomas Bradly and James Barnes, who now came forward.