was a man of an obstinate and violent temper, of strong and unreflecting
prejudices both for good and evil, hot, persevering, and vindictive,
though personally brave, intrepid, and often generous. Like many of his
class, he never troubled his head about religion as a matter that must,
and ought to have been, personally, of the chiefest interest to himself,
but, at the same time, he was looked upon as one of the best and
staunchest Protestants of the day. His loyalty and devotedness to
the throne of England were not only unquestionable, but proverbial
throughout the country; but, at the same time, he regarded no clergyman,
either of his own or any other creed, as a man whose intimacy was worth
preserving, unless he was able to take off his three or four bottles
of claret after dinner. In fact, not to keep our readers longer in
suspense, the relation which he and his companion bore to each other was
that of master and servant.

The hour was now a little past twilight, and the western sky presented
an unusual, if not an ominous, appearance. A sharp and melancholy breeze
was abroad, and the sun, which had set among a mass of red clouds, half
placid, and half angry in appearance, had for some brief space gone
down. Over from the north, however, glided by imperceptible degrees a
long black bar, right across the place of his disappearance, and nothing
could be more striking than the wild and unnatural contrast between the
dying crimson of the west and this fearful mass of impenetrable darkness
that came over it. As yet there was no moon, and the portion of light
or rather "darkness visible" that feebly appeared on the sky and
the landscape, was singularly sombre and impressive, if not actually
appalling. The scene about them was wild and desolate in the extreme;
and as the faint outlines of the bleak and barren moors appeared in the
dim and melancholy distance, the feelings they inspired were those of
discomfort and depression. On each side of them were a variety of lonely