“‘Captain,’ said I, ‘it is of no use talking that way. We must be after the fellow, we shall catch him before he leaves the town. Faint heart never won fair lady. Rouse, captain, rouse; we’ll have him yet, and all will be well.’ “But you might as well have tried to rouse a milestone. At last he burst into tears, and he cried like a child, and rocked to and fro in his chair with his face buried in his hands. He sprang up suddenly, and snatched a pistol from the mantel-piece; I tore it from his hand. “‘Are you mad, captain?’ I said. ‘Would you go headlong to everlasting destruction, and kill your mother with grief?’ That seemed to sober him a little. ‘Cheer up,’ said I; ‘it’s an old saying, “When things come to the worst, they begin to mend.”’ “‘Never with me, Tom,’ he said, throwing himself down, and looking the pictur o’ despair. ‘Never with me—all’s up. I’m a doomed man—nothing prospers with me.’ “I could have told him why they did not prosper, soon enough; but he’d enough on him without any cut from me. As for me, I was at my wits’ end. How should I manage to keep him from laying violent hands on himself? I was about to ring for the landlady, and, while telling her to bring some brandy, whisper to her to run for help—when, bang! comes a thundering knock at the door. ‘Lock it, quick, woman!’ said I. But even that did not rouse my captain. ‘They are there, again, let them come,’ he said—‘let them do their worst.’ “The landlady, however, had opened the door on the chain. Women are awlis sharper about such things than we are. In she comes with a letter and a great black seal with a coat of arms. The captain glanced at it,—he pounced on it like a hawk—he tore it open and read. His hand trembled, then shook violently—the letter dropped, and he dropped, too. I caught him in my arms. ‘Water!’ I cried, ‘water! brandy!’ The landlady flew. We drenched him with water; we tried to force some brandy between his teeth, but couldn’t. They were set as fast as rocks. At length he gave a deep sike (sigh), opened his eyes, and drank off the whole glass of brandy. “‘Troubles never comes alone,’ he said, beginning to speak. ‘The governor is dead, Tom; we must be off to-night for Beech-Lees; run and take our places in the night-coach.’ He tried to look as if the blow of this news had been a stunner, but I could see that it was huge relief. Mountains were off his shoulders. The governor was past all _his_ troubles, and there was that fine old property of Beech-Lees. I had no further fear about my captain. “‘But,’ said I—‘I’ll run to the coach—but the money for the fares?’ “‘Oh!’ said he, looking about for the fallen letter, ‘there’s money enough.’ “I picked it up, and another bit of paper. “‘That’s it,’ said he. ‘There’s no want of money, now.’ It was a Bank of England note for one hundred pounds. ‘Get the Major to change it into small notes,’ he said. ‘He has always bushels of them.’