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In northern customs duty was exprest To friends departed by their funeral feast; Though I’ve consulted Hollingshed and Stow, I find it very difficult to know, Who, to refresh the attendants to the grave, Burnt claret first, or Naples’ biscuit gave.

King: Art of Cookery.

Ceterum priusquam corpus humo injectâ contegatur, defunctus oratione funebri laudabatur. —Durand.

A supply of spirits was here introduced; lights were brought at the same time, and placed upon a long oak table. The party gathering round it, ill-humor was speedily dissipated, and even the storm disregarded, in the copious libations that ensued. At this juncture, a loiterer appeared in the hall. His movements were unnoticed by all excepting the sexton, who watched his proceedings with some curiosity. The person walked to the window, appearing, so far as could be discovered, to eye the storm with great impatience. He then paced the hall rapidly backwards and forwards, and Peter fancied he could detect sounds of disappointment in his muttered exclamations. Again he returned to the window, as if to ascertain the probable duration of the shower. It was a hopeless endeavor; all was pitch-dark without; the lightning was now only seen at long intervals, but the rain still audibly descended in torrents. Apparently seeing the impossibility of controlling the elements, the person approached the table.

“What think you of the night, Mr. Palmer?” asked the sexton of Jack, for he was the anxious investigator of the weather.

“Don’t know — can’t say — set in, I think — cursed unlucky — for the funeral, I mean — we shall be drowned if we go.”

“And drunk if we stay,” rejoined Peter. “But never fear, it will hold up, depend upon it, long before we can start. Where have they put the prisoner?” asked he, with a sudden change of manner.

“I know the room, but can’t describe it; it’s two or three doors down the lower corridor of the eastern gallery.”

“Good. Who are on guard?”

“Titus Tyrconnel and that swivel-eyed quill-driver, Coates.”

“Enough.”

“Come, come, Master Peter,” roared Toft, “let’s have another stave. Give us one of your odd snatches. No more corpse-candles, or that sort of thing. Something lively — something jolly — ha, ha!”

“A good move,” shouted Jack. “A lively song from you— lillibullero from a death’s-head — ha, ha!”

“My songs are all of a sort,” returned Peter; “I am seldom asked to sing a second time. However, you are welcome to the merriest I have.” And preparing himself, like certain other accomplished vocalists, with a few preliminary hems and haws, he struck forth the following doleful ditty: