"I'll be hanged up at the yard if I understands what you mean," said
Jack; "as if I ever drunk anything--I, of all people in the world. I am
ashamed of you. You are drunk." Several of the dragoons had to turn aside to keep themselves from
laughing, and the officer himself could not forbear from a smile as he
said to the doctor,--

"Sir, you seem to have many acquaintances, and by some means or another
they all have an inclination to come here to-night. If, however, you
consider that you are bound to remain here from a feeling that the Hall
is threatened with any danger, you may dismiss that fear, for I shall
leave a picquet here all night." "No, sir," replied Dr. Chillingworth, "it is not that I fear now, after
the manner in which they have been repulsed, any danger to the Hall from
the mob; but I have reasons for wishing to be in it or near it for some
time to come." "As you please." "Charles, do not wait for or accept the guidance of that drunken fellow,
but go yourself with a direction which I will write down for you in a
leaf of my pocket-book." "Drunken fellow," exclaimed Jack, who had now scrambled to his feet,
"who do you call a drunken fellow?" "Why you, unquestionably." "Well, now, that is hard. Come along, nevey; I'll shew you where they
all are. I could walk a plank on any deck with any man in the service, I
could. Come along, my boy, come along." "You can accept of him as a guide if you like, of course," said the
doctor; "he may be sober enough to conduct you." "I think he can," said Charles. "Lead on, Jack; but mark me, I shall
inform my uncle of this intemperance, as well as of the manner in which
you let your tongue wag about him behind his back, unless you promise to
reform." "He is long past all reformation," remarked Dr. Chillingworth; "it is
out of the question." "And I am afraid my uncle will not have courage to attempt such an
ungrateful task, when there is so little chance of success," replied
Charles Holland, shaking the worthy doctor by the hand. "Farewell, for
the present, sir; the next time I see you, I hope we shall both be more
pleasantly situated." "Come along, nevey," interrupted Jack Pringle; "now you've found your
way back, the first thing you ought to do, is to report yourself as
having come aboard. Follow me, and I'll soon show yer the port where the
old hulk's laid hisself up." Jack walked on first, tolerably steady, if one may take into account his
divers deep potations, and Charles Holland, anticipating with delight
again looking upon the face of his much loved Flora, followed closely
behind him. We can well imagine the world of delightful thoughts that came crowding
upon him when Jack, after rather a long walk, announced that they were
now very near the residence of the object of his soul's adoration. We trust that there is not one of our readers who, for one moment, will
suppose that Charles Holland was the sort of man to leave even such a
villain and double-faced hypocrite as Marchdale, to starve amid the
gloomy ruins where he was immured. Far from Charles's intentions was any such thing; but he did think that
a night passed there, with no other company than his own reflections,
would do him a world of good, and was, at all events, no very great
modicum of punishment for the rascality with which he had behaved. Besides, even during that night there were refreshments in the shape of
bread and water, such as had been presented to Charles himself, within
Marchdale's reach as they had been within his. That individual now, Charles thought, would have a good opportunity of
testing the quality of that kind of food, and of finding out what an
extremely light diet it was for a strong man to live upon. But in the morning it was Charles's intention to take Henry Bannerworth
and the admiral with him to the ruins, and then and there release the
wretch from his confinement, on condition that he made a full confession
of his villanies before those persons. Oh, how gladly would Marchdale have exchanged the fate which actually
befell him for any amount of personal humiliation, always provided that
it brought with it a commensurate amount of personal safety. But that fate was one altogether undreamt of by Charles Holland, and
wholly without his control. It was a fate which would have been his, but for the murderous purpose
which had brought Marchdale to the dungeon, and those happy accidents
which had enabled Charles to change places with him, and breathe the
free, cool, fresh air; while he left his enemy loaded with the same
chains that had encumbered his limbs so cruelly, and lying on that same
damp dungeon floor, which he thought would be his grave. We mentioned that as Charles left the ruins, the storm, which had been
giving various indications of its coming, seemed to be rapidly
approaching. It was one of these extremely local tempests which expend all their
principal fury over a small space of country; and, in this instance, the
space seemed to include little more than the river, and the few meadows
which immediately surrounded it, and lent it so much of its beauty. Marchdale soon found that his cries were drowned by the louder voices of
the elements. The wailing of the wind among the ancient ruins was much
more full of sound than his cries; and, now and then, the full-mouthed
thunder filled the air with such a volume of roaring, and awakened so
many echoes among the ruins, that, had he possessed the voices of fifty
men, he could not have hoped to wage war with it. And then, although we know that Charles Holland would have encountered
death himself, rather than he would have willingly left anything human
to expire of hunger in that dungeon, yet Marchdale, judging of others by
himself, felt by no means sure of any such thing, and, in his horror of
apprehension, fancied that that was just the sort of easy, and pleasant,
and complete revenge that it was in Charles Holland's power to take, and
just the one which would suggest itself, under the circumstances, to his
mind. Could anything be possibly more full of horror than such a thought? Death, let it come in any shape it may, is yet a most repulsive and
unwelcome guest; but, when it comes, so united with all that can add to
its terrors, it is enough to drive reason from its throne, and fill the
mind with images of absolute horror. Tired of shrieking, for his parched lips and clogged tongue would
scarcely now permit him to utter a sound higher than a whisper. Marchdale lay, listening to the furious storm without, in the last
abandonment of despair. "Oh! what a death is this," he groaned. "Here, alone--all alone--and
starvation to creep on me by degrees, sapping life's energies one by
one. Already do I feel the dreadful sickening weakness growing on me. Help, oh! help me Heav--no, no! Dare I call on Heaven to help me? Is
there no fiend of darkness who now will bid me a price for a human soul?