It cannot be Stroke, for his head is brooding on his breast.

This mysterious voice haunted all the doings in the Den, and had better be confined in brackets.
("Go on.") "Methinks," says Sir Joseph, "methinks the borers--" ("Burghers.") "Methinks the burghers now cease from their labors." "Ay," replied Stroke, "'tis so, would that they ceased from them forever!" "Methinks the time is at hand." "Ha!" exclaims Stroke, looking at his lieutenant curiously, "what makest thou say so?
For three weeks these fortifications have defied my cannon, there is scarce a breach yet in the walls of yonder town." "Methinks thou wilt find a way." "It may be so, my good Sir Joseph, it may be so, and yet, even when I am most hopeful of success, my schemes go a gley." "Methinks thy dark--" ("Dinna say Methinks so often.") ("Tommy, I maun.

If I dinna get that to start me off, I go through other.") ("Go on.") "Methinks thy dark spirit lies on thee to-night." "Ay, 'tis too true.

But canst thou blame me if I grow sad?
The town still in the enemy's hands, and so much brave blood already spilt in vain.

Knowest thou that the brave Kinnordy fell last night?
My noble Kinnordy!" Here Stroke covers his face with his hands, weeping silently, and--and there is an awkward pause.
("Go on--'Still have me.'") ("So it is.") "Weep not, my royal scone--" ("Scion.") "Weep not, my royal scion, havest thou not still me ?" "Well said, Sir Joseph," cries Stroke, dashing the sign of weakness from his face.