“I told you you should have your revenge,” observed the knight to Pillichody, as soon as Disbrowe was gone.  “Is his wife really as beautiful as you represent her?”

“Words are too feeble to paint her charms,” replied the major.  “Shafts of Cupid! she must be seen to be appreciated.”

“Enough!” returned Parravicin.  “I have not made a bad night’s work of it, so far.  I’faith, Wyvil, I pity you.  To lose a heavy wager is provoking enough—­but to lose a pretty mistress is the devil.”

“I have lost neither yet,” replied Wyvil, who had completely recovered 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 our pleasures.  We must meet at noon to-morrow, at the Smyrna, to compare notes as to our successes.  Before we separate, can I be of any further service to you, Wyvil?  I came here to enjoy your triumph; but, egad, I have found so admirable a bubble in that hot-headed Disbrowe, whom I met at the Smyrna, and brought here to while away the time, that I must demand your congratulations upon mine.”

“You have certainly achieved an easy victory over the husband,” returned Wyvil; “and I trust your success with the wife will be commensurate.  I require no further assistance.  What I have to do must be done alone.  Lydyard will accompany me to the house, and then I must shift for myself.”

“Nay, we will all see you safe inside,” returned Parravicin, “We shall pass by the grocer’s shop.  I know it well, having passed it a hundred times, in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of its lovely inmate.”