When the sun had set, Zed began to feel some degree of uneasiness to be gone. There was the Trent to voyage, for at least three miles, in order to reach their home at Torksey, and Zed knew the stream would be somewhat swollen, but much more he feared the state of his own upper story, since he had not been able to resist the pressing invitations and challenges, first of one and then of another, and, consequently, his potations had been somewhat numerous. Having given Phil the hint, Phil began to complain of exhaustion as to his tale-budget, and of the power of his nerves to direct the bow; but it was long ere this would avail, and many a roaring ditty was launched forth from the thunder of Phil's catgut, amid the thundering heels of the country lads and lasses, before the two aged cronies could manage to obtain leave, once more, to launch their little boat, and strike off for home. The farewell chords were at last struck, the fiddle was boxed; and, accompanied to the water's edge by a merry company, Zed and Phil pushed off from shore amidst the hearty cheers of the merry-makers. Then, each taking his oar, as usual, away they went with the tide, that now swept up the river's course. Much as they had sung that merry day, the two brave old fellows, nevertheless, trolled forth more than one ditty before they reached Torksey; and neither of them suffered any depression of spirits or strength as they prosecuted their homeward voyage. Zed Marrowby, especially—and, in good faith his alacrity must be fairly confessed to have owed its greater intensity to his most frequent potations—Zed, especially, sprung on shore with the nimbleness of a lad of twenty, as soon as they arrived in front of the ruins of old Torksey castle, which stands like a blighted, and yet beautiful thing of the past, beside the very brink of the noble stream. "As sure as a gun, Phil," cried the mellow old fellow, stamping with vehemence, as he was leading Phil under a propped fragment of the old fabric, "we'll not go to bed to-night till we've seen whether there be any gold in these vaults, as the story goes! I've heard you tell the tale about folks hiding their coin here, in the time of bloody Oliver, until my patience is worn out. I'm determined, Phil, to know whether any money can be found here, or not!" "Why, zowks, Zed!" exclaimed Phil Garrett, "you're not so mad with that glass o' rum they gave you before you pushed off as to have taken it into your head to——" "Don't bother me, Phil!" said the fisherman in a pet, "I'm determined to fish up the gold out of these old vaults before midnight, as late as it is, and that's the long and short on't!" "'Don't say so till you're sure!'" cried Phil, uttering an old saying that he was very fond of; "how will you dig up the gold, Zed? you have never a shovel nor a pick-axe, you know."