Opening my door a little, I became aware of a demand on his part for "Creemsvort" to be brought down to him that he might cut his throat on the hall-table and wash his honour, which he affirmed to be in a dirty condition, in infernal British blood.

"He is either mad or drunk," thought I, "and in either case the old woman and the servants will be the better of a man's assistance," so I descended straight to the hall.

I found him staggering about, his eyes in a fine frenzy rolling--a pretty sight he was, a just medium between the fool and the lunatic.
"Come, M.Pelet," said I, "you had better go to bed," and I took hold of his arm.

His excitement, of course, increased greatly at sight and touch of the individual for whose blood he had been making application: he struggled and struck with fury--but a drunken man is no match for a sober one; and, even in his normal state, Pelet's worn out frame could not have stood against my sound one.

I got him up-stairs, and, in process of time, to bed.