his spirits, and joined in the general merriment occasioned by the
foregoing occurrence. "I have been baffled, not defeated. What say you
to an exchange of mistresses? I am so diverted with your adventure, that
I am half inclined to give you the grocer's daughter for Disbrowe's
wife. She is a superb creature--languid as a Circassian, and passionate
as an Andalusian."

"I can't agree to the exchange, especially after your rapturous
description," returned Parravicin, "but I'll stake Mrs. Disbrowe against
Amabel. The winner shall have both. A single cast shall decide, as
before."

"No," replied Wyvil, "I could not resign Amabel, if I lost. And the luck
is all on your side to-night."

"As you please," rejoined the knight, sweeping the glittering pile into
his pocket. "Drawer, another bottle of burgundy. A health to our
mistresses!" he added, quaffing a brimmer.

"A health to the grocer's daughter!" cried Wyvil, with difficulty
repressing a shudder, as he uttered the pledge.

"A health to the rich widow of Watling-street," cried Pillichody,
draining a bumper, "and may I soon call her mine!"

"I have no mistress to toast," said Lydyard; "and I have drunk wine
enough. Do not forget, gentlemen, that the plague is abroad."

"You are the death's-head at the feast, Lydyard," rejoined Parravicin,
setting down his glass. "I hate the idea of the plague. It poisons all