As soon as I had done eating, we proceeded to inspect the lower floor.  Window by window we tried the different supports, now and then making an inconsiderable change; and the strokes of the hammer sounded with startling loudness through the house.  I proposed, I remember, to make loop-holes; but he told me they were already made in the windows of the upper story.  It was an anxious business, this inspection, and left me down-hearted.  There were two doors and five windows to protect, and, counting Clara, only four of us to defend them against an unknown number of foes.  I communicated my doubts to Northmour, who assured me, with unmoved composure, that he entirely shared them.

“Before morning,” said he, “we shall all be butchered and buried in Graden Floe.  For me, that is written.”

I could not help shuddering at the mention of the quicksand, but reminded Northmour that our enemies had spared me in the wood.

“Do not flatter yourself,” said he.  “Then you were not in the same boat with the old gentleman; now you are.  It’s the floe for all of us, mark my words.”

I trembled for Clara; and just then her dear voice was heard calling us to come upstairs.  Northmour showed me the way, and, when he had reached the landing, knocked at the door of what used to be called My Uncle’s Bedroom, as the founder of the pavilion had designed it especially for himself.

“Come in, Northmour; come in, dear Mr. Cassilis,” said a voice from within.

Pushing open the door, Northmour admitted me before him into the apartment.  As I came in I could see the daughter slipping out by the side door into the study, which had been prepared as her bedroom.  In the bed, which was drawn back against the wall, instead of standing, as I had last seen it, boldly across the window, sat Bernard Huddlestone, the defaulting banker.  Little as I had seen of him by the shifting light of the lantern on the links, I had no difficulty in recognizing him for the same.  He had a long and sallow countenance, surrounded by a long red beard and side-whiskers.  His broken nose and high cheek-bones gave him somewhat the air of a Kalmuck, and his light eyes shone with the excitement of a high fever.  He wore a skull-cap of black silk; a huge Bible lay open before him on the bed, with a pair of gold spectacles in the place, and a pile of other books lay on the stand by his side.  The green curtains lent a cadaverous shade to his cheek; and, as he sat propped on pillows, his great stature was painfully hunched, and his head protruded till it overhung his knees.  I believe if he had not died otherwise, he must have fallen a victim to consumption in the course of but a very few weeks.

He held out to me a hand, long, thin, and disagreeably hairy.

“Come in, come in, Mr. Cassilis,” said he.  “Another protector—­ahem!—­another protector.  Always welcome as a friend of my daughter’s, Mr. Cassilis.  How they have rallied about me, my daughter’s friends!  May God in heaven bless and reward them for it!”