For the next few minutes the noise and confusion were such that Ronan, whose temples had been set on fire by the wine, hardly knew whether he was standing on his head or his feet. First one of the pretended women, and then another, solicited the honour of dancing with him, until at last, through sheer fatigue and giddiness, he was constrained to stop and lean for support against the walls of the building.
He was still in this attitude, when the music, if such one could style it, suddenly ceased, and the whole company, as if by a preconcerted signal, suddenly stood at attention, as still and silent as statues.
Sir Hector McBlane then approached Ronan with a bow, and informing him that his bride awaited him in the bridal chamber, declared that the time had now arrived for his introduction to her.
This announcement was so unexpected and extraordinary that Ronan lost all power of speech, and, before he could realise what was taking place, he found himself being conducted by his host to a dimly lighted corner of the room, where he perceived, for the first time, a recess or kind of cell, measuring not more than four feet in depth, and three feet across, but reaching upwards to the same height as the ceiling. Exactly in the centre of it was a tall figure, absolutely stiff and motionless, and clad in long, flowing, white garments.
Still too bewildered and astonished to protest or remonstrate, Ronan permitted himself to be led right up to the figure, which a sudden flare from a torch held by one of the revellers, enabled him to perceive was merely a huge rag doll, decked out in sham jewellery, with a painted, leering face and a mass of tow hair, a clever but ridiculous caricature of a woman. He was about to demand an angry explanation of the foolery, when he was pushed violently forward, and, before he could recover his equilibrium, a rope was wound several times round his body, and he was strapped tightly to the doll, which was securely attached to an iron stake fixed perpendicularly in the ground.
Loud shouts of laughter now echoed from one end of the chamber to the other, the merriment being further increased when Sir Hector, with an assumed gravity, presented his humblest respects to the bride and bridegroom, and hoped that they would enjoy a long and very happy honeymoon.
Ronan, whose indignation was by this time raised to boiling pitch, furiously demanded to be released, but the more angry he became, the more his tormentors mocked, until at length even walls, floor, and ceiling seemed to become infected and to shake with an uncontrollable and devilish mirth. Finally, however, when things had gone on in this fashion for some time, Sir Hector again spoke, and this time announced in loud tones that, as he was quite sure the bride and bridegroom must now be wishing for nothing better than to be left to themselves, he and his guests would now proceed to seal up the bridal chamber.
A general bustle and subsequent clinking of metal on the stone floor, immediately following this speech, left Ronan in no doubt whatever as to what was happening. He was, of course, being bricked up. Now although he felt assured that it was all a joke, he also felt it was a joke that had gone on quite long enough. It was only too clear to him that, for some reason or another, Mr Robert Dunloe was very far from popular with these masqueraders, and he began to wonder if Mr Dunloe’s explanation of his desire to exchange clothes was the correct one, whether, in fact, Mr Dunloe had not got an inkling of what was going to happen to him from the elfish girl’s letter, and whether he had not merely trumped up the story of the sick woman and the wager for the occasion.
In any case Ronan felt that he had been let down badly, and since he did not see why he should still pretend to be the man who had taken such advantage of him, he called out:
“Look here, I’ve a confession to make. You think I’m Mr Robert Dunloe, but I’m not. My name is Ronan Malachy. I’m staying with my uncle, Mr Hugh Malachy, near Birkenhead, and anyone there would confirm my identity. I was bound to-night for Lockerbie, when I met a girl who begged me to wait in the road and deliver a letter for her to an individual dressed as a Court jester, and styling himself Robert Dunloe, who would presently pass by. Not liking to refuse a lady, I agreed, and when I had given the man the letter, and he had read it, he told me that it was a summons to attend the death-bed of a very dear friend and urged me to exchange clothes with him, in order that he might go suitably attired. To this I naturally assented, and he then begged me to impersonate him here, as he had laid a big wager that he would be present at this ball and would walk all the way from Annan in this costume.”