“You are at Castle Warlock, my lord,” replied the laird.
At this he shrieked, and, throwing off the clothes, sprung from the bed.
“I entreat you, my lord, to lie down again. You were very ill in the night,” expostulated the laird.
“I don’t stop another hour in the blasted hole!” roared his guest, in a fierce quaver. “Out of my way you fool! Where’s Joan? Tell her to get up and come directly. I’m off, tell her. I’d as soon go to bed in the drifts as stop another hour in this abominable old lime-kiln.”
The laird let him rave on: it was useless to oppose him. He flew at his clothes to dress himself, but his poor old hands trembled with rage, fear, drink, and eagerness. The laird did his best to help him, but he seemed nowise recognizant.
“I will get you some hot water, my lord,” he said at length, and was moving towards the door.
“No,—you!—everybody!” shrieked the old man. “If you go out of that door, I will throw myself out of this window.”
The laird turned at once, and in silence waited on him like a servant. “He must be in a fit of delirium tremens!” he said to himself. He poured him out some cold water, but he would not use it. He would neither eat nor drink nor wash till he was out of the horrible dungeon, he said. The next moment he cried for water, drank three mouthfuls eagerly, threw the tumbler from him, and broke it on the hearth.
The instant he was dressed, he dropped into the great chair and closed his eyes.
“Your lordship must allow me to fetch some fuel,” said the laird; “the room is growing cold.”