ions, and
some overwhelming remembrance, the youth arose, and plunged his hand
into the basin, applying the moist element to his burning brow.
Apparently becoming more calm, he bent his steps towards the hall, when
two figures, suddenly issuing from an adjoining copse, arrested his
progress; neither saw him. Muttering a hurried farewell, one of the
figures disappeared within the shrubbery, and the other, confronting the
stranger, displayed the harsh features and gaunt form of Peter Bradley.
Had Peter encountered the dead Sir Piers in corporeal form, he could not
have manifested more surprise than he exhibited, for an instant or two,
as he shrunk back from the stranger's path.

_CHAPTER VIII_

_AN IRISH ADVENTURER_

_Scapin._ A most outrageous, roaring fellow, with a swelled red face
inflamed with brandy.--_Cheats of Scapin._

An hour or two prior to the incident just narrated, in a small, cosy
apartment of the hall, nominally devoted to justiciary business by its
late owner, but, in reality, used as a sanctum, snuggery, or
smoking-room, a singular trio were assembled, fraught with the ulterior
purpose of attending the obsequies of their deceased patron and friend,
though immediately occupied in the discussion of a magnum of excellent
claret, the bouquet of which perfumed the air, like the fragrance of a
bed of violets.

This little room had been poor Sir Piers's favorite retreat. It was, in
fact, the only room in the house that he could call his own; and thither
would he often, with pipe and punch, beguile the flagging hours, secure
from interruption. A snug, old-fashioned apartment it was; wainscoted
with rich black oak; with a fine old cabinet of the same material, and a
line or two of crazy, worm-eaten bookshelves, laden with sundry dusty,
unconsulted law tomes, and a light sprinkling of the elder divines,
equally neglected. The only book, indeed, Sir Piers ever read, was the
"Anatomie of Melancholy;" and he merely studied Burton because the
quaint, racy style of the learned old hypochondriac suited his humor at
seasons, and gave a zest to his sorrows, such as the olives lent to his
wine.

Four portraits adorned the walls: those of Sir Reginald Rookwood and his
wives. The ladies were attired in the flowing drapery of Charles the
Second's day, the snow of their radiant bosoms being somewhat sullied by
over-exposure, and the vermeil tinting of their cheeks darkened by the
fumes of tobacco. There