to suppose was private between Sir Arthur and himself, and
therefore must have been learned from the former. The language of Oldbuck also
intimated a conviction of his knavery, which Sir Arthur heard without making any
animated defence. Lastly, the way in which Dousterswivel supposed the Baronet to
have exercised his revenge, was not inconsistent with the practice of other
countries with which the adept was better acquainted than with those of North
Britain. With him, as with many bad men, to suspect an injury, and to nourish
the purpose of revenge, was one and the same movement. And before Dousterswivel
had fairly recovered his legs, he had mentally sworn the ruin of his benefactor,
which, unfortunately, he possessed too much the power of accelerating.
    But although a purpose of revenge floated through his brain, it was no time
to indulge such speculations. The hour, the place, his own situation, and
perhaps the presence or near neighbourhood of his assailants, made
self-preservation the adept's first object. The lantern had been thrown down and
extinguished in the scuffle. The wind, which formerly howled so loudly through
the aisles of the ruin, had now greatly fallen, lulled by the rain, which was
descending very fast. The moon, from the same cause, was totally obscured, and
though Dousterswivel had some experience of the ruins, and knew that he must
endeavour to regain the eastern door of the chancel, yet the confusion of his
ideas was such, that he hesitated for some time ere he could ascertain in what
direction he was to seek it. In this perplexity, the suggestions of
superstition, taking the advantage of darkness and his evil conscience, began
again to present themselves to his disturbed imagination. »But bah!« quoth he
valiantly to himself, »it is all nonsense - all one part of de damn big trick
and imposture. Devil! that one thick-skulled Scotch Baronet, as I have led by
the nose for five year, should cheat Herman Dousterswivel!«
    As he had come to this conclusion, an incident occurred which tended greatly
to shake the grounds on which he had adopted it. Amid the melancholy sough of
the dying wind, and the plash of the rain-drops on leaves and stones, arose, and
apparently at no great distance from the listener, a strain of vocal music so
sad and solemn, as if the departed spirits of the churchmen who had once
inhabited these deserted ruins were mourning the solitude and desolation to
which their hallowed precincts had been abandoned. Dousterswivel, who had now
got upon his feet, and was groping around the