But see, Mrs. Quarles has, in her peculiar fashion, undressed herself:  that is to say, she has taken off her outer gown, her cap and wig—­and then has added to the volume of her under garments, divers night habiliments, flannelled and frilled:  while wrappers, manifold as a turbaned Turk’s, protect ear-ache, tooth-ache, head-ache, and face-ache, from the elves of the night.

And now, that the bedstead creaks beneath her weight, (as well it may, for Bridget is a burden like Behemoth,) Simon’s heart goes thump so loud, that it was a wonder the poor woman never heard it.  That heart in its hard pulsations sounded to me like the carpenter hammering on her coffin-lid:  I marvel that she did not take it for a death-watch tapping to warn her of her end.  But no:  Simon held his hand against his heart to keep it quiet:  he was so very fearful the pitapating would betray him.  Never mind, Simon; don’t be afraid; she is fast asleep already; and her snore is to thee as it were the challenge of a trumpeter calling to the conflict.

CHAPTER XXVII.

ROBBERY.

HUSH—­hush—­hush!

Stealthily on tiptoe, with finger on his lips, that fore-doomed man crept out.

“The key is in the cupboard still—­ha! how lucky:  saves time that, and trouble, and—­and—­risk!  Oh, no—­there can be no risk now,” and the wretch added, “thank God!”

The devil loves such piety as this.

So Simon quietly turned the key, and set the cupboard open:  it was to him a Bluebeard’s chamber, a cave of the Forty Thieves, a garden of the Genius in Aladdin, a mysterious secret treasure-house of wealth uncounted and unseen.

What a galaxy of pickle-pots! tier behind tier of undoubted currant-jelly, ranged like the houses in Algiers! vasty jars of gooseberry! delicate little cupping-glasses full of syruped fruits!  Yet all these candied joys, which probably enhance a Mrs. Rundle’s heaven, were as nothing in the eyes of Simon—­sweet trash, for all he cared they might be vulgar treacle.  His ken saw nothing but the honey-pots—­embarrassing array—­a round dozen of them!  All alike, all posted in a brown line, like stout Dutch sentinels with their hands in their breeches pockets, and set aloft on that same high-reached shelf.  Must he really take them all? impracticable:  a positive sack full.  What’s to be done?—­which is he to leave behind? that old witch contrived this identity and multitude for safety’s sake.  But what if he left the wrong one, and got clear off with the valuable booty of two dozen pounds of honey?  Confusion! that’ll never do:  he must take them all, or none; all, all’s the word; and forthwith, as tenderly as possible, the puzzled thief took down eleven pots of honey to his one of gold—­all pig-bladdered, all Fortnumed—­all slimy at the string; “Confound that cunning old aunt of mine,” said Simon, aloud; and took no notice that the snores surceased.