Franconia holds the flaring light over the stairs:  pale and death-like, she trembles with fear, every moment expecting to see them ascend.

“I see the colonel’s ’oman! yander she is; she what was imposed on him to save the poverty of her folks.  The M’Carstrows know a thing or two:  her folks may crawl under the dignity of the name, but they don’t shell under the dignity of the money-they don’t!” says a stalwart companion, attempting to gain a position by the side of his fellow on the steps.  He gives a leering wink, contorts his face into a dozen grimaces, stares vacantly round the hall (sliding himself along on his hands and knees), his glassy eyes inflamed like balls of fire.  “It’ll be all square soon,” he growls out.

The poor affrighted servant again attempts-having descended the stairs-to relieve her master; but the crawling creature has regained his feet.  He springs upon her like a fiend, utters a fierce yell, and, snatching the lamp from her hand, dashes it upon the tiles, spreading the fractured pieces about the hall.  Wringing herself from his grasp, she leaves a portion of her dress in his bony hand, and seeks shelter in a distant part of the hall.  Holding up the fragment as a trophy, he staggers from place to place, making hieroglyphics on the wall with his fingers.  His misty mind searches for some point of egress.  Confronting (rather uncomfortably) hat stands, tables, porcelains, and other hall appurtenances, he at length shuffles his way back to the stairs, where, as if doubting his bleered optics, he stands some moments, swaying to and fro.  His hat again falls from his head, and his body, following, lays its lumbering length on the stairs.  Happy fraternity! how useful is that body!  His companion, laying his muddled head upon it, says it will serve for a pillow.  “E’ke-hum-spose ’tis so?  I reckon how I’m some-ec! eke!-somewhere or nowhere; aint we, Joe?  It’s a funny house, fellers,” he continues to soliloquise, laying his arm affectionately over his companion’s neck, and again yielding to the caprice of his nether limbs.

The gentlemen will now enjoy a little refreshing sleep; to further which enjoyment, they very coolly and unceremoniously commence a pot-pourri of discordant snoring.  This seems of grateful concord for their boon companions, who-forming an equanimity of good feeling on the floor-join in.

The servant is but a slave, subject to her owner’s will; she dare not approach him while in such an uncertain condition.  Franconia cannot intercede, lest his companions, strangers to her, and having the appearance of low-bred men, taking advantage of M’Carstrow’s besotted condition, make rude advances.  M’Carstrow, snoring high above his cares, will take his comfort upon the tiles.

The servant is supplied with another candle, which, at Franconia’s bidding, she places in a niche of the hall.  It will supply light to the grotesque sleepers, whose lamp has gone out.