His lordship did not drink fast.

There was no hope of another bottle, and the wine must cover the period of his necessity: he dared not encounter the night without the sustaining knowledge of its presence.

At last he began to nod, and by slow degrees sank on the sofa.

Very softly the laird covered him, and went back to his book.
The storm went raging on, as if it would never cease.

The sense of desolation it produced in the heart of the laird when he listened to it was such, that with an inward shudder he closed his mind against it, and gave all his attention to George Fox, and the thoughts he roused.