_Wyck._ Well, I cannot help you. If, now, it were
to circumvent a woman, to betray a saucy piece of
virtue--then I would go great lengths in deception;
remind me that I tell thee a story will make thee
laugh. 'Twas ere my trip to America. I would
have sold her to the plantations. 'Sblood, will not
that do for him?--

_Basil._ I tell there is better.

_Wyck._ Doth he know that by your father's disposition
of the property, his relinquishment of it in your
favour is void! I say, the old fellow knew thee well,
eh? [_Laughs._]

_Basil._ Curse on thy ribald jests; keep them for the
girls thou betrayest. No, no, he knows nothing.

_Wyck._ Let me tell thee of the girl. She loved a
mean fellow that was her father's apprentice, and
perspired in good behaving. A tremulous young
man; with hissing red cheeks and a clump hand that
looked through his fingers during evening prayers at
the maid-servants, as they knelt; yet cried "Amen"
with a reverence, and had the gift to find his own
bedchamber afterward. It was a mercy to pave her
from him, for they had surely procreated fools. Yet
she liked not the sea, and one night she fell overboard
in a calm, and the sharks had a white morsel. She
walked in her sleep. I wish, though, she had left