Wyvil made no answer, but, walking to the other end of the room, threw himself into a chair, and, covering his face with his hands, appeared wrapped in thought.  Lydyard took a seat beside him, and endeavoured to engage him in conversation; but, finding his efforts fruitless, he desisted.

“Something is wrong,” observed Parravicin, to the major.  “He has been foiled in his attempt to carry off the girl.  Sedley has won his wager, and it is a heavy sum.  Shall we resume our play?” he added, to Disbrowe.

“I have nothing more to lose,” observed the young man, filling a large goblet to the brim, and emptying it at a draught.  “You are master of every farthing I possess.”

“Hum!” exclaimed Parravicin, taking up a pack of cards, and snapping them between his finger and thumb.  “You are married, Captain Disbrowe?”

“What if I am?” cried the young man, becoming suddenly pale; “what if I am?” he repeated.

“I am told your wife is beautiful,” replied Parravicin.

“Beautiful!” ejaculated Pillichody; “by the well-filled coffers of the widow of Watling-street! she is an angel.  Beautiful is not the word:  Mrs. Disbrowe is divine!”

“You have never seen her,” said the young man, sternly.

“Ha!—­fire and fury! my word doubted,” cried the major, fiercely.  “I have seen her at the play-houses, at the Mulberry-garden, at court, and at church.  Not seen her!  By the one eye of a Cyclops, but I have!  You shall hear my description of her, and judge of its correctness. Imprimis, she has a tall and majestic figure, and might be a queen for her dignity.”

“Go on,” said Disbrowe, by no means displeased with the commencement.

“Secondly,” pursued Pillichody, “she has a clear olive complexion, bright black eyes, hair and brows to match, a small foot, a pretty turn-up nose, a dimpling cheek, a mole upon her throat, the rosiest lips imaginable, an alluring look—­”

“No more,” interrupted Disbrowe.  “It is plain you have never seen her.”

“Unbelieving pagan!” exclaimed the major, clapping his hand furiously upon his sword.  “I have done more—­I have spoken with her.”

“A lie!” replied Disbrowe, hurling a dice-box at his head.

“Ha!” roared Pillichody, in a voice of thunder, and pushing back his chair till it was stopped by the wall.  “Death and fiends!  I will make mincemeat of your heart, and send it as a love-offering to your wife.”

And, whipping out his long rapier, he would have assaulted Disbrowe, if Sir Paul had not interposed, and commanded him authoritatively to put up his blade.

“You shall have your revenge in a safer way,” he whispered.

“Well, Sir Paul,” rejoined the bully, with affected reluctance, “as you desire it, I will spare the young man’s life.  I must wash away the insult in burgundy, since I cannot do so in blood.”

With this, he emptied the flask next him, and called to a drawer, who was in attendance, in an imperious tone, to bring two more bottles.