Deaker was lying a little raised, with an Orange silk night-cap on his head, embellished with a figure of King William on horseback.  Three or four Orange pocket-handkerchiefs, each, owing to the excellent taste of the designer, with a similar decoration of his Majesty in the centre, lay about the bed, and upon a little table that stood near his head.  There was no apothecary’s bottles visible, for it is well known that whatever may have been the cause of Deaker’s death he died not of any malady known in the Pharmacopeia.  In truth, he died simply of an over-wrought effort at reviving his departed energies, joined to a most loyal, but indomitable habit of drinking the Glorious Memory in brandy.

“Well, Vulture,” said he on seeing Val, “do you smell the death-damp yet, that you’re here?  Is the putrefaction of my filthy old carcase on the wind yet?  Here Lanty, you imp,” he said turning his eyes on the ripe youth as he brought in a large jug of the “Boyne”—­in other words of St. Patrick’s Well water—­“I say you—­you clip, do you smell the putrefaction of my filthy old carcase yet? eh?”

“Begad, sir, it’s no the pleasantest smell in the world at the present time; and there’s a pair of big, black, thievish look in’ ould Ravens, sittin’ for the last two or three days upon the black beech, as if they had a suspicion of something.  Tom Corbet and I have fired above a dozen shots at them, and blazes to the feather we can take out o’ them.  So far from that, they sit there laughin’ at us.  Be me sowl, it’s truth, gentlemen.”

“Begone, sirra,” said Val, “how dare you use such language as this to your master; Leave the room.”

Lanty rubbed his hair with his middle finger and went reluctantly out.

“Ah,” said Deaker, “I’m glad to see you bore, Dick Bredin—­and you Jack—­stay here till I’m in the dirt, and you’ll find I have not forgotten either of you.—­As for the Vulture there, he is very well able to take care of himself—­he is—­oh, a d——­d rogue!”

Deaker’s face, was such a one as, perhaps, was never witnessed on a similar occasion, if there ever were a similar occasion.  It presented the cadaverous aspect of the grave, lit up into the repulsive and unnatural animation that resulted from intoxication, and the feeble expiring leer of a worse passion.  There was a dead but turbid glare in his eye; half of ice, and half of fire, as it were, which when taken in connection with his past life, was perfectly dreadful and appalling.  If it was not the ruling passion strong in death, it was the ruling passion struggling for a divided empire with that political Protestantism which regulated his life, but failed to control his morals.

“Here,” said he, “mix me some brandy and water, or—­stop, ring the bell, Dick Bredin.”

Bredin rang the bell accordingly, and in a minute or so Lanty came in.

“Here, you imp, do your duty.”

“Haven’t you enough, sir? more, I think, will do you harm.”