“There you are wrong, Captain Disbrowe,” returned Pillichody, in a supplicatory tone.  “On my soul, you are!  I certainly praised your wife (as who would not?), but I never advised Parravicin to play for her.  That was his own idea entirely.”

“The excuse shall not avail you,” cried Disbrowe, fiercely.  “To you I owe all my misery.  Draw and defend yourself.”

“Be not so hasty, captain,” cried Pillichody, abjectedly.  “I have injured you sufficiently already.  I would not have your blood on my head.  On the honour of a soldier, I am sorry for the wrong I have done you, and will strive to repair it.”

“Repair it!” shrieked Disbrowe.  “It is too late.”  And seizing the major’s arm, he dragged him by main force into the alley.

“Help! help!” roared Pillichody.  “Would you murder me?”

“I will assuredly cut your throat, if you keep up this clamour,” rejoined Disbrowe, snatching the other’s long rapier from his side.  “Coward!” he added, striking him with the flat side of the weapon, “this will teach you to mix yourself up in such infamous affairs for the future.”

And heedless of the major’s entreaties and vociferations, he continued to belabour him, until compelled by fatigue to desist; when the other, contriving to extricate himself, ran off as fast as his legs could carry him.  Disbrowe looked after him for a moment, as if uncertain whether to follow, and then hurrying to the house, stationed himself beneath the porch.

“I will stab him as he comes forth,” he muttered, drawing his sword, and hiding it beneath his mantle.

Parravicin, meanwhile, having let himself into the house, marched boldly forward, though the passage was buried in darkness, and he was utterly unacquainted with it.  Feeling against the wall, he presently discovered a door, and opening it, entered a room lighted by a small silver lamp placed on a marble slab.  The room was empty, but its furniture and arrangements proclaimed it the favourite retreat of the fair mistress of the abode.  Parravicin gazed curiously round, as if anxious to gather from what he saw some idea of the person he so soon expected to encounter.  Everything betokened a refined and luxurious taste.  A few French romances, the last plays of Etherege, Dryden, and Shadwell, a volume of Cowley, and some amorous songs, lay on the table; and not far from them were a loomask, pulvil purse, a pair of scented gloves, a richly-laced mouchoir, a manteau girdle, palatine tags, and a golden bodkin for the hair.

Examining all these things, and drawing his own conclusions as to the character of their owner, Parravicin turned to a couch on which a cittern was thrown, while beside it, on a cushion, were a pair of tiny embroidered velvet slippers.  A pocket-mirror, or sprunking-glass, as it was then termed, lay on a side-table, and near it stood an embossed silver chocolate-pot, and a small porcelain cup with a golden spoon inside it, showing what the lady’s last repast had been.  On another small table, covered with an exquisitely white napkin, stood a flask of wine, a tall-stemmed glass, and a few cakes on a China dish, evidently placed there for Disbrowe’s return.