aid, "there is neither hearth nor harbour."

It was indeed a scene of desolation. A large vaulted room, the beams of
which, combined like those of Westminster Hall, were rudely carved at
the extremities, remained nearly in the situation in which it had been
left after the entertainment at Allan Lord Ravenswood's funeral.
Overturned pitchers, and black-jacks, and pewter stoups, and flagons
still cumbered the large oaken table; glasses, those more perishable
implements of conviviality, many of which had been voluntarily
sacrificed by the guests in their enthusiastic pledges to favourite
toasts, strewed the stone floor with their fragments. As for the
articles of plate, lent for the purpose by friends and kinsfolk, those
had been carefully withdrawn so soon as the ostentatious display of
festivity, equally unnecessary and strangely timed, had been made and
ended. Nothing, in short, remained that indicated wealth; all the signs
were those of recent wastefulness and present desolation. The black
cloth hangings, which, on the late mournful occasion, replaced the
tattered moth-eaten tapestries, had been partly pulled down, and,
dangling from the wall in irregular festoons, disclosed the rough
stonework of the building, unsmoothed either by plaster or the chisel.
The seats thrown down, or left in disorder, intimated the careless
confusion which had concluded the mournful revel. "This room," said
Ravenswood, holding up the lamp--"this room, Mr. Hayston, was riotous
when it should have been sad; it is a just retribution that it should
now be sad when it ought to be cheerful."

They left this disconsolate apartment, and went upstairs, where, after
opening one or two doors in vain, Ravenswood led the way into a little
matted ante-room, in which, to their great joy, they found a tolerably
good fire, which Mysie, by some such expedient as Caleb had suggested,
had supplied with a reasonable quantity of fuel. Glad at the heart to see
more of comfort than the castle had yet seemed to offer, Bucklaw rubbed
his hands heartily over the fire, and now listened with more complacency
to the apologies which the Master of Ravenswood offered. "Comfort," he
said, "I cannot provide for you, for I have it not for myself; it
is long since these walls have known it, if, indeed, they were ever
acquainted with it. Shelter and safety, I think, I can promise you."

"Excellent matters, Master," replied Bucklaw, "and, with a mouthful of
food and wine, pos