“Disbrowe!” cried Margaret, at length, raising herself in bed, “you have deeply—­irrecoverably injured me.  But promise me one thing.”

“I swear to do whatever you may desire,” he replied.

“I know not, after what I have heard, whether you have courage for the deed,” she continued.  “But I would have you kill this man.”

“I will do it,” replied Disbrowe.

“Nothing but his blood can wipe out the wrong he has done me,” she rejoined.  “Challenge him to a duel—­a mortal duel.  If he survives, by my soul, I will give myself to him.”

“Margaret!” exclaimed Disbrowe.

“I swear it,” she rejoined.  “And you know my passionate nature too well to doubt I will keep my word.”

“But you have the plague!”

“What does that matter?  I may recover.”

“Not so,” muttered Disbrowe.  “If I fall, I will take care you do not recover.  I will fight him to-morrow,” he added aloud.

He then summoned his servants, but when they found their mistress was attacked by the plague, they framed some excuse to leave the room, and instantly fled the house.  Driven almost to his wits’ end, Disbrowe went in search of other assistance, and was for a while unsuccessful, until a coachman, to whom he applied, offered, for a suitable reward, to drive to Clerkenwell—­to the shop of an apothecary named Sibbald (with whose name the reader is already familiar), who was noted for his treatment of plague patients, and to bring him to the other’s residence.  Disbrowe immediately closed with the man, and in less than two hours Sibbald made his appearance.  He was a singular and repulsive personage, with an immense hooked nose, dark, savage-looking eyes, a skin like parchment, and high round shoulders, which procured him the nickname of Aesop among his neighbours.  He was under the middle size, and of a spare figure, and in age might be about sixty-five.

On seeing Mrs. Disbrowe, he at once boldly asserted that he could cure her, and proceeded to apply his remedies.  Finding the servants fled, he offered to procure a nurse for Disbrowe, and the latter, thanking him, eagerly embraced the offer.  Soon after this he departed.  In the evening the nurse, who (as may be surmised) was no other than Judith Malmayns, arrived, and immediately commenced her functions.

Disbrowe had no rest that night.  His wife slept occasionally for a few minutes, but, apparently engrossed by one idea, never failed when she awoke to urge him to slay Parravicin; repeating her oath to give herself to the knight if he came off victorious.  Worn out at length, Disbrowe gave her a terrible look, and rushed out of the room.

He had not been alone many minutes when he was surprised by the entrance of Judith.  He eagerly inquired whether his wife was worse, but was informed she had dropped into a slumber.

“Hearing what has passed between you,” said the nurse, “and noticing your look when you left the room, I came to tell you, that if you fall in this duel, your last moments need not be embittered by any thoughts of your wife.  I will take care she does not recover.”