“Ay! ay! this is a courtlike requital of my service to you, Master Richard Varney,” replied Foster.  “Didst thou not charge me to seek out for thee a fellow who had a good sword and an unscrupulous conscience? and was I not busying myself to find a fit man—­for, thank Heaven, my acquaintance lies not amongst such companions—­when, as Heaven would have it, this tall fellow, who is in all his dualities the very flashing knave thou didst wish, came hither to fix acquaintance upon me in the plenitude of his impudence; and I admitted his claim, thinking to do you a pleasure.  And now see what thanks I get for disgracing myself by converse with him!”

“And did he,” said Varney, “being such a fellow as thyself, only lacking, I suppose, thy present humour of hypocrisy, which lies as thin over thy hard, ruffianly heart as gold lacquer upon rusty iron—­did he, I say, bring the saintly, sighing Tressilian in his train?”

“They came together, by Heaven!” said Foster; “and Tressilian—­to speak Heaven’s truth—­obtained a moment’s interview with our pretty moppet, while I was talking apart with Lambourne.”

“Improvident villain! we are both undone,” said Varney.  “She has of late been casting many a backward look to her father’s halls, whenever her lordly lover leaves her alone.  Should this preaching fool whistle her back to her old perch, we were but lost men.”

“No fear of that, my master,” replied Anthony Foster; “she is in no mood to stoop to his lure, for she yelled out on seeing him as if an adder had stung her.”

“That is good.  Canst thou not get from thy daughter an inkling of what passed between them, good Foster?”

“I tell you plain, Master Varney,” said Foster, “my daughter shall not enter our purposes or walk in our paths.  They may suit me well enough, who know how to repent of my misdoings; but I will not have my child’s soul committed to peril either for your pleasure or my lord’s.  I may walk among snares and pitfalls myself, because I have discretion, but I will not trust the poor lamb among them.”

“Why, thou suspicious fool, I were as averse as thou art that thy baby-faced girl should enter into my plans, or walk to hell at her father’s elbow.  But indirectly thou mightst gain some intelligence of her?”

“And so I did, Master Varney,” answered Foster; “and she said her lady called out upon the sickness of her father.”

“Good!” replied Varney; “that is a hint worth catching, and I will work upon it.  But the country must be rid of this Tressilian.  I would have cumbered no man about the matter, for I hate him like strong poison—­his presence is hemlock to me—­and this day I had been rid of him, but that my foot slipped, when, to speak truth, had not thy comrade yonder come to my aid, and held his hand, I should have known by this time whether you and I have been treading the path to heaven or hell.”

“And you can speak thus of such a risk!” said Foster.  “You keep a stout heart, Master Varney.  For me, if I did not hope to live many years, and to have time for the great work of repentance, I would not go forward with you.”