As he entered the apartment, little disposed as he felt to mirth at such
a moment, the tableau before him was too ridiculous not to laugh at. At
one side of the fire-place sat Malone, his face florid with drinking, and
his eyeballs projecting. Upon his head was a small Indian skull cap,
with two peacock feathers, and a piece of scarlet cloth which hung down
behind. In one hand he held a smoking goblet of rum punch, and in the
other a long, Indian Chibook pipe. Opposite to him, but squatted upon
the floor, reposed a red Indian, that lived in the Fort as a guide,
equally drunk, but preserving, even in his liquor, an impassive, grave
aspect, strangely contrasting with the high excitement of Malone's face.
The red man wore Malone's uniform coat, which he had put on back
foremost--his head-dress having, in all probability been exchanged for
it, as an amicable courtesy between the parties. There they sat, looking
fixedly at each other; neither spoke, nor even smiled--the rum bottle,
which at brief intervals passed from one to the other, maintained a
friendly intercourse that each was content with.

To the hearty fit of laughing of O'Flaherty, Malone replied by a look of
drunken defiance, and then nodded to his red friend, who returned the
courtesy. As poor Tom left the room, he saw that nothing was to be hoped
for in this quarter, and determined to beat the garrison to arms without
any further delay. Scarcely had he closed the door behind him, when a
sudden thought flashed through his brain. He hesitated, walked forward a
few paces, stopped again, and calling out to the corporal, said--

"You are certain they were militia?"

"Yes, sir; quite sure."

"Then, by Jove, I have it," cried O'Flaherty. "If they should turn out