Having returned to the apartment below, Rory threw himself down on the bed, and huddled himself up in the blankets, with his inseparable companion the gaud-clip by his side, and there he lay patiently to watch the event, until, the fire falling low on the hearth, the darkness and his own drowsiness overcame his vigilance, and he fell into deep oblivion.
He had not lain long in this state when the door slowly opened, and the head of Sir Andrew Stewart appeared. Over it there was a lamp, which he held up in his hand, so as to throw a glimmer of light into the farther corner of the place. He paused for a moment, and seeing the form of a figure within the blankets, and observing that all was quiet, he withdrew the lamp.
“She sleeps,” whispered he to his esquire and the two men who were with him; “the potion hath worked as it ought. Approach the bed, yet be cautious; rude carelessness might break her slumbers. Let her not be awakened while she is within earshot of those within the place; ye may be less scrupulous anon. Approach and lift her up in the blanket; her weight can be but as that of an infant in such hands.”
“No sike infant, I wot,” muttered one of the men to the other, as they strained to lift up the blanket with the enormous carcase of Rory Spears in it.
“By the mass, but she is a load for a wain,” said the other.
“Be silent, ye profane clowns,” said Sir Andrew.
“St. Roque, how she doth snore!” said the first, in a lower voice.
“Silence, I say, villains,” said Sir Andrew, “silence, and bear her this way.”
“Hold, hold, Murdoch, the blanket is slipping,” said one; “keep up your end, or we are done with her.”
“Hout, she’s gone,” cried Murdoch, as his end of the blanket slipped altogether, and Rory was rolled on the floor.