last glass of punch. Of all the foul, beastly drinks I ever tasted,
that was the worst. No, I never will forgive you that punch."

"Oh, it isn't that, it isn't that!" said she.

"I tell you it is that,--you! That punch, I say that punch was no
better than paw--aw-oison." And here the Count's head sank back,
and he fell to snore.

"IT WAS POISON!" said she.

"WHAT!" screamed he, waking up at once, and spurning her away from
him. "What, you infernal murderess, have you killed me?"

"Oh, Max!--don't kill me, Max! It was laudanum--indeed it was. You
were going to be married, and I was furious, and I went and got--"

"Hold your tongue, you fiend," roared out the Count; and with more
presence of mind than politeness, he flung the remainder of the
liquor (and, indeed, the glass with it) at the head of Mrs.
Catherine. But the poisoned chalice missed its mark, and fell right
on the nose of Mr. Tom Trippet, who was left asleep and unobserved
under the table.

Bleeding, staggering, swearing, indeed a ghastly sight, up sprang
Mr. Trippet, and drew his rapier. "Come on," says he; "never say
die! What's the row? I'm ready for a dozen of you." And he made
many blind and furious passes about the room.

"Curse you, we'll die together!" shouted the Count, as he too pulled