The rest of the guests were by this time sound asleep; for your
Mynheers are huge sleepers. The house maids, one by one, crept up
yawning to their attics, and not a female head in the inn was laid on a
pillow that night without dreaming of the Bold Dragoon.

My grandfather, for his part, got into bed, and drew over him one of
those great bags of down, under which they smother a man in the Low
Countries; and there he lay, melting between, two feather beds, like an
anchovy sandwich between two slices of toast and butter. He was a
warm-complexioned man, and this smothering played the very deuce with
him. So, sure enough, in a little while it seemed as if a legion of
imps were twitching at him and all the blood in his veins was in fever
heat.

He lay still, however, until all the house was quiet, excepting the
snoring of the Mynheers from the different chambers; who answered one
another in all kinds of tones and cadences, like so many bull-frogs in
a swamp. The quieter the house became, the more unquiet became my
grandfather. He waxed warmer and warmer, until at length the bed became
too hot to hold him.

"May be the maid had warmed it too much?" said the curious gentleman,
inquiringly.

"I rather think the contrary," replied the Irishman. "But be that as it
may, it grew too hot for my grandfather."

"Faith there's no standing this any longer," says he; so he jumped out
of bed and went strolling about the house.