ried the good-natured farmer, "this be ugly
jesting--ax pardon for my share of it--sorry for what I did--so give us
thy hand, man, and think no more about it."

Peter extended his claw, and the parties were, apparently, once more
upon terms of friendship.

_CHAPTER II_

_THE FUNERAL ORATION_

In northern customs duty was exprest
To friends departed by their funeral feast;
Though I've consulted Hollingshed and Stow,
I find it very difficult to know,
Who, to refresh the attendants to the grave,
Burnt claret first, or Naples' biscuit gave.

KING: _Art of Cookery_.

Ceterum priusquam corpus humo injecta contegatur, defunctus oratione
funebri laudabatur.--DURAND.

A supply of spirits was here introduced; lights were brought at the same
time, and placed upon a long oak table. The party gathering round it,
ill-humor was speedily dissipated, and even the storm disregarded, in
the copious libations that ensued. At this juncture, a loiterer appeared
in the hall. His movements were unnoticed by all excepting the sexton,
who watched his proceedings with some curiosity. The person walked to
the window, appearing, so far as could be discovered, to eye the storm
with great impatience. He then paced the hall rapidly backwards and
forwards, and Peter fancied he could detect sounds of disappointment in
his muttered exclamations. Again he returned to the window, as if to
ascertain the probable duration of the shower. It was a hopeless
endeavor; all was pitch-dark without; the lightning was now only seen at
long intervals, but the rain still audibly descended in torrents.
Apparently seeing the impossibility of controlling the elements, the
person approached the table.

"What think you of the night, Mr. Palmer?" asked the sexton of Jack, for
he was the anxious investigator of the weather.

"Don't know--can't say--set in, I think--cursed unlucky--for the
funeral, I mean--we shall be drowned if we go."

"And drunk if we stay," rejoined Peter. "But never fear, it will hold
up, depend upon it, long before we can start. Where have they put the
prisoner?" asked he, with a sudden change of manner.

"I know the room, but can't describe it; it's two or three doors down
the lower corridor of the eastern gallery."

"Good. Who are on guard?"

"Titus Tyrconnel and that swivel-eyed quill-driver, Coates."

"Enough."

"Come, come, Master Peter," roar