Osric produced the flask from the gypsire which hung from the belt of his tunic.
Then the old man took down two goblets, and Osric poured the wine.
The old man drank freely; Osric but sparingly. Soon the former began to talk incoherently, and at last he cried—
"What wine was that? Why, it was Old Nick's own brewing. I can't keep my eyes open."
Half suspecting something amiss, the old man rose, as if going to the door; but Osric threw his arms around him, and as he did so the old man gave way to the influence of the powerful narcotic which the youth had mingled with his drink, and fell like a log on the couch to which Osric had dragged him.
"I hope I have not killed him; but if I have it is only half his deserts. Now for my perilous task. How this ring has helped me!"
He went first and strongly barred the outer door, then traversed the upper corridor till he came to a room in the new buildings, which was a private den of the Baron. It was panelled with oak, and pressing a knob on the panel, a secret door opened, disclosing a flight of steps. These went down into the bowels of the earth; then a narrow passage opened at right angles to the corridor above, which Osric traversed. It was damp and slimy, and the air had a deathly odour; but it soon came to an end, and Osric ascended a similar flight of steps to the one by which he had descended; again he drew out the key and opened an iron door at the summit. He stood upon a terrace at the edge of the river, and just upon a level with the water.
The night was dark and stormy—not a star could be seen. The stream rippled by as Osric stood and listened. The clock struck twelve, or rather the man on duty with an iron hammer struck the bell in the tower of St. Peter's Church twelve times with his hammer to tell the midnight hour. A few minutes of feverish suspense—the night air fanned his heated brow—when he heard muffled oars close by, heard rather the splash of the water as it fell from the upraised blades. A large boat was at hand.
"Who comes?" said Osric in a low voice.