“What ho! my little Blaize, my physic-taking porter,” cried the bully; “how wags the world with you?  And how is my pretty Patience?  How is that peerless kitchen-maiden?  By the god of love!  I am dying to behold her again.”

“Patience is well enough, for aught I know,” replied Blaize, in a surly tone.  “But it is useless for you to think of her.  She is betrothed to me.”

“I know it,” replied Pillichody; “but do not suppose you are the sole master of her affections.  The little charmer has too good taste for that.  ‘Blaize,’ said she to me, ’will do very well for a husband, but he cannot expect me to continue faithful to him.’”

“Cannot I?” exclaimed the porter reddening.  “Fiends take her! but I do!  When did she say this?”

“When I last visited your master’s house,” replied Pillichody.  “Sweet soul!  I shall never forget her tender looks, nor the kisses she allowed me to snatch from her honeyed lips when your back was turned.  The very recollection of them is enchanting.”

“Zounds and fury!” cried Blaize, transported with rage.  “If I am only a porter, while you pretend to be a major, I will let you see I am the better man of the two.”  And taking the goose by the neck, he swung it round his head like a flail, and began to batter Pillichody about the face with it.

“S’death!” cried the bully, endeavouring to draw his sword, “if you do not instantly desist, I will treat you like that accursed bird—­cut your throat, pluck, stuff, roast, and eat you afterwards.”  He was, however, so confounded by the attack, that he could offer no resistance, and in retreating, caught his foot against the leg of a table, and fell backwards on the floor.  Being now completely at the porter’s mercy, and seeing that the latter was preparing to pursue his advantage with a rolling-pin which he had snatched from the dresser, he besought him piteously to spare him.

“Recant all you have said,” cried Blaize, brandishing the rolling-pin over him.  “Confess that you have calumniated Patience.  Confess that she rejected your advances, if you ever dared to make any to her.  Confess that she is a model of purity and constancy.  Confess all this, villain, or I will break every bone in your body.”

“I do confess it,” replied Pillichody, abjectly.  “She is all you describe.  She never allowed me greater freedom than a squeeze of the hand.”

“That was too much,” replied the porter, belabouring him with the rolling-pin.  “Swear that you will never attempt such a liberty again, or I will pummel you to death.  Swear it.”

“I swear,” replied Pillichody.

“Before I allow you to rise, I must disarm you to prevent mischief,” cried Blaize.  And kneeling down upon the prostrate bully, who groaned aloud, he drew his long blade from his side.  “There, now you may get up,” he added.

So elated was Blaize with his conquest, that he could do nothing for some time but strut up and down the kitchen with the sword over his shoulder, to the infinite diversion of the other domestics, and especially of John Lutcombe, who chanced to make his appearance at the time, laden with a fresh supply of game.