"Will he not want to know why his messenger has not delivered the letter in person?" I asked.
"Where wine is in the wit is out," replied Firestone oracularly. "But now, to the postern! The hour is at hand!"
Just before midnight we waited close to the postern for the faithless captain, and, before a quarter of an hour had passed, two cloaked figures, reeling with the effects of strong drink, staggered towards us.
"Hist! 'Tis Goring and Chaloner," whispered Firestone, dragging us into a recess.
Our companion had already given instructions to the guard, who, turning out smartly, saluted their worthless Governor, Goring.
"Fare thee well, Chaloner," said the latter unsteadily and with mock sadness. "I feel that I'll not see thee to-morrow."
It was a lengthy parting, but at length Goring returned towards his quarters, while Chaloner, hardly able to return the salute of the guard, staggered across the footbridge over the moat.
Hardly had he gained the open ground when Firestone gave the signal, and we followed, treading softly lest the captain should hear us while still within hailing distance of the fortifications.
It was a clear night, and we could distinctly see the lurching figure of our quarry against the sky-line. Away at Spithead the stern lanterns of the blockading ships glimmered like gigantic glow-worms, while away to the north flickered the watch-fires of the rebels' camp.
When Chaloner had covered half the distance 'twixt the town and the castle, Colonel Firestone increased his pace, and overtook the drunkard.