“You recommend me boots, Mr. Esmond?” asks my lord.

“Yes, boots and spurs.  I saw your lordship three days ago run down the gallery fast enough,” Harry goes on.  “I am sure that taking gruel at night is not so pleasant as claret to your lordship; and besides it keeps your lordship’s head cool for play, whilst my patron’s is hot and flustered with drink.”

“’Sdeath, sir, you dare not say that I don’t play fair?” cries my lord, whipping his horses, which went away at a gallop.

“You are cool when my lord is drunk,” Harry continued; “your lordship gets the better of my patron.  I have watched you as I looked up from my books.”

“You young Argus!” says Lord Mohun, who liked Harry Esmond—­and for whose company and wit, and a certain daring manner, Harry had a great liking too—­“You young Argus! you may look with all your hundred eyes and see we play fair.  I’ve played away an estate of a night, and I’ve played my shirt off my back; and I’ve played away my periwig and gone home in a nightcap.  But no man can say I ever took an advantage of him beyond the advantage of the game.  I played a dice-cogging scoundrel in Alsatia for his ears and won ’em, and have one of ’em in my lodging in Bow Street in a bottle of spirits.  Harry Mohun will play any man for anything—­always would.”

“You are playing awful stakes, my lord, in my patron’s house,” Harry said, “and more games than are on the cards.”

“What do you mean, sir?” cries my lord, turning round, with a flush on his face.

“I mean,” answers Harry, in a sarcastic tone, “that your gout is well—­if ever you had it.”

“Sir!” cried my lord, getting hot.

“And to tell the truth I believe your lordship has no more gout than I have.  At any rate, change of air will do you good, my Lord Mohun.  And I mean fairly that you had better go from Castlewood.”

“And were you appointed to give me this message?” cries the Lord Mohun.  “Did Frank Esmond commission you?”

“No one did.  ’Twas the honor of my family that commissioned me.”

“And you are prepared to answer this?” cries the other, furiously lashing his horses.

“Quite, my lord:  your lordship will upset the carriage if you whip so hotly.”

“By George, you have a brave spirit!” my lord cried out, bursting into a laugh.  “I suppose ’tis that infernal botte de Jesuite that makes you so bold,” he added.

“’Tis the peace of the family I love best in the world,” Harry Esmond said warmly—­“’tis the honor of a noble benefactor—­the happiness of my dear mistress and her children.  I owe them everything in life, my lord; and would lay it down for any one of them.  What brings you here to disturb this quiet household?  What keeps you lingering month after month in the country?  What makes you feign illness, and invent pretexts for delay?  Is it to win my poor patron’s money?  Be generous, my lord, and spare his weakness for the sake of his wife and children.  Is it to practise upon the simple heart of a virtuous lady?  You might as well storm the Tower single-handed.  But you may blemish her name by light comments on it, or by lawless pursuits—­and I don’t deny that ’tis in your power to make her unhappy.  Spare these innocent people, and leave them.”