The captain showed no sign of alarm at our approach, merely stopping and looking at us in a half-dazed manner, then resuming his staggering gait.
"Captain Chaloner, we bear you company to the castle to-night," announced Firestone sternly.
"Delighted, I'm sure," replied he, turning and extending his hand, almost falling through the effort of standing still.
Without replying, the colonel seized his shoulder in a vice-like grip, and urged him towards the castle.
At the gateway we were challenged by a sleepy pikeman, and Chaloner mechanically giving the countersign, we gained the courtyard. Save for the pikemen, the castle appeared to be deserted, the guns standing unattended on their platforms, with neither match nor charge at hand, while, from a small outbuilding, came sounds of revelry.
Presently, from one of the embrasures, arose the dark, great-coated figure of a man, and, descending by a stone staircase, the watcher made towards us, producing a lantern from the folds of his cloak. At least, then, one man was on the alert.
"Who are you?" demanded Firestone.
"Sergeant Lawson, sir."
"Then take your captain to his quarters, and lock him in," continued the colonel. "And turn out those rascals I hear yonder."
Chaloner meekly submitted to be led away, and on his return the sergeant expressed his fears that an attack was imminent.