James and his company, passing through the ponderous and embattled gateway, entered into the great quadrangle, an area, it is reported, of sufficient size to contain six hundred men.  Here he alighted, and was conducted in great state to the oaken chamber, where, royalty being very hot, a tankard of Rhenish wine, mingled with rosewater, was handed to him; of this he partook but sparingly, calling to Buckingham for a cup of muscadine and eggs.

Goring and Finett were not idle, but each of them fully employed in their respective vocations.  Sir John had been pierced by a pair of dark eyes from the crowd upon the staircase, and Goring was making all haste for the royal hunt, his Majesty having signified that he would on that same evening kill a stag.  James was, generally, as quick to resolve as he was impotent to execute; vacillating, and without any fixed purpose, in matters that required decision and promptitude of action.

With his usual pusillanimity the king went through the business of the hunt, the deer being literally driven into the very teeth of the dogs.  An hour having been thus occupied, he commanded that they should return, highly satisfied with his own skill and intrepidity.  Ascending the hill with his favourite, Goring, and discoursing pleasantly on this noble pastime, the king turned round on the sudden, as though recollecting something he had lost.

“What!  Jack Finett.  Quhere? quhere, I say, is my Sienna balsam?” said he, laying a deep emphasis on the guttural.  This sally was acknowledged with delight by the courtiers.  But “Jack” had not been seen or even remembered.  Some trick or device was doubtless intended, and the king held himself in readiness for the expected surprise; but none was forthcoming.  No magazine of mirth exploded; no mine was sprung; and James entered into his chamber without any visible expression of jocoseness issuing from the fertile brains of Sir John Finett.  The irritation produced by his absence seemed to arise, not from any need of him, but from that tormenting desire which mortals universally feel for the possession of objects beyond their reach.  Search was commanded for the truant, unsuccessfully; and supper was begun.

The eastern side of the hill on which the tower is built is bold and rugged, being steep and difficult of access.  At its base the Darwen forces itself through a narrow channel, its waters tumbling over huge heaps of rock, and reeling in mazy eddies to the echo of their own voice.  The river seems to have worked itself a passage through the chasm; and the boiling and noisy torrent, struggling to free itself from observation, foams and bellows like the gorge of a whirlpool, from whence originates its name, “The Orr,” not unlike in sound to the effect that is here produced.