“Well, then,” replied Dunroe, interrupting him, “bring that old dog Sombre here, will you?  I trust you will so far oblige me.”

Roberts complied with this; but the Doctor was equally firm.

“Doctor,” said his lordship, after urging several arguments, “you will oblige Sir Thomas Gourlay very much, by having us married when they come in.  It’s only a paltry matter of property, that Sir Thomas acceded to this morning.  Pray, proceed with the ceremony, Doctor, and make two lovers happy.”

“The word of your honorable father,” replied the Doctor, “shall ever be a law to me.  He was always a most hospitable man; and, unless my bishop, or the chief secretary, or, what is better still, the viceroy himself, I do not know a nobleman more worthy of respect.  No, my lord, there is not in the peerage a nobleman who—­gave better dinners.”

What with this effort on the part of Dunroe, and a variety of chat that took place upon the subject of the interruption, at least five-and-twenty minutes had elapsed, and the company began to feel somewhat anxious and impatient, when Sir Thomas Gourlay entered; and, gracious heaven, what a frightful change had taken place in him!  Dismay, despair, wretchedness, misery, distraction, frenzy, were all struggling for expression in his countenance.  He was followed by Lord Cullamore, who, when about to proceed home, had changed his mind, and returned for Lady Emily.  He advanced, still supported by Morty, and approaching Lucy, took her hand, and said,

“Miss Gourlay, you are saved; and I thank God that I was made the instrument of rescuing you from wretchedness and despair, for I read both in your face.  And now,” he proceeded, addressing the spectators, “I beg it to be understood, that in the breaking off of this marriage, there is no earthly blame, not a shadow of imputation to be attributed to Miss Gourlay, who is all honor, and delicacy, and truth.  Her father, if left to himself, would not now permit her to become the wife of my son; who, I am sorry to say, is utterly unworthy of her.”

“Attention!” once more was heard from the quarter in which old Sam stood, as if bearing testimony to the truth of his lordship’s assertion.  “John,” said the latter, “you may thank your friend, Mr. Norton, for enabling me, within the last hour, to save this admirable girl from the ruin which her union with you would have entailed upon her.  You will now know how to appreciate so faithful and honorable a friend.”

All that Dunroe must have felt, may be easily conceived by the reader.  The baronet, however, becomes the foremost figure in the group.  The strong, the cunning, the vehement, the overbearing, the plausible, the unbelieving, the philosophical, and the cruel—­these were the divided streams, as it were, of his character, which all, however, united to make up the dark and terrible current of his great ambition; great, however, only as a passion and a moral impulse of action, but