“Loosen the sthrings o' you, then,” said Bridget, about to suit the action to the word. “Ow! ow!” cried Andy, “don't touch me—I'm ticklish.”
“Then open the throat o' your gown yourself, dear,” said Bridget.
“I've a cowld on my chest, and darn't,” said Andy; “but I think a dhrop of hot punch would do me good if I had it.”
“And plenty of it,” said Bridget, “if that'll plaze you.” She rose as she spoke, and set about getting “the materials” for making punch.
Andy hoped, by means of this last idea, to drink Bridget into a state of unconsciousness, and then make his escape; but he had no notion, until he tried, what a capacity the gentle Bridget had for carrying tumblers of punch steadily; he proceeded as cunningly as possible, and, on the score of “the thrimblin' over him,” repeated the doses of punch, which, nevertheless, he protested he couldn't touch, unless Bridget kept him in countenance, glass for glass; and Bridget—genial soul—was no way both; for living in a still, and among smugglers, as she did, it was not a trifle of stingo could bring her to a halt. Andy, even with the advantage of the stronger organisation of a man, found this mountain lass nearly a match for him, and before the potations operated as he hoped upon her, his own senses began to feel the influence of the liquor, and his caution became considerably undermined.
Still, however, he resisted the repeated offers of the couch proposed to him, declaring he would sleep in his clothes, and leave to Bridget the full possession of her lair.
The fire began to burn low, and Andy thought he might facilitate his escape by counterfeiting sleep; so feigning slumber as well as he could, he seemed to sink into insensibility, and Bridget unrobed herself and retired behind a rough screen.
It was by a great effort that Andy kept himself awake, for his potations, added to his nocturnal excursion, tended towards somnolency; but the desire of escape, and fear of a discovery and its consequences, prevailed over the ordinary tendency of nature, and he remained awake, watching every sound. The silence at last became painful—so still was it, that he could hear the small crumbling sound of the dying embers as they decomposed and shifted their position on the hearth, and yet he could not be satisfied from the breathing of the woman that she slept. After the lapse of half an hour, however, he ventured to make some movement. He had well observed the quarter in which the outlet from the cave lay, and there was still a faint glimmer from the fire to assist him in crawling towards the trap. It was a relief when, after some minutes of cautious creeping, he felt the fresh air breathing from above, and a moment or two more brought him in contact with the ladder. With the stealth of a cat he began to climb the rungs—he could hear the men snoring on the outside of the cave: step by step as he arose he felt his heart beat faster at the thought of escape, and became more cautious. At length his head emerged from the cave, and he saw the men lying about its mouth; they lay close around it—he must step over them to escape—the chance is fearful, but he determines to attempt it—he ascends still higher—his foot is on the last rung of the ladder—the next step puts him on the heather—when he feels a hand lay hold of him from below!
His heart died within him at the touch, and he could not resist an exclamation.
“Who's that?” exclaimed one of the men outside. Andy crouched.