Tim stood where I had left him, sentinel-wise, glaring with sleepless eyes at his father's guests.

Father, with his head on his arm, at the foot of the bed, slept a tipsy, sorrowful sleep.

A few of the rest, worn-out with the night's revels, slumbered on the floor.

Others made love, or quarrelled, or talked drowsily in couples.
His honour had escaped from the choking atmosphere of the cabin, and was pacing moodily on the grass outside, casting impatient glances eastward, where lay Kilgorman, and the _Cigale_, and the rising sun.
Presently, when with a salute I came out to join him, he said, "'Tis time we started.

Waken your father, boy." It was no easy task, and when he was wakened it was hard to make him understand what was afoot.