“By George, Harry, you ought to be the head of the house,” says my lord, gloomily.  “You had been a better Lord Castlewood than a lazy sot like me,” he added, drawing his hand across his eyes, and surveying his kinsman with very kind and affectionate glances.

“Let us take our coats off and have half an hour’s practice before nightfall,” says Harry, after thankfully grasping his patron’s manly hand.

“You are but a little bit of a lad,” says my lord, good-humoredly; “but, in faith, I believe you could do for that fellow.  No, my boy,” he continued, “I’ll have none of your feints and tricks of stabbing:  I can use my sword pretty well too, and will fight my own quarrel my own way.”

“But I shall be by to see fair play?” cries Harry.

“Yes, God bless you—­you shall be by.”

“When is it, sir?” says Harry, for he saw that the matter had been arranged privately and beforehand by my lord.

“’Tis arranged thus:  I sent off a courier to Jack Westbury to say that I wanted him specially.  He knows for what, and will be here presently, and drink part of that bottle of sack.  Then we shall go to the theatre in Duke Street, where we shall meet Mohun; and then we shall all go sup at the ‘Rose’ or the ‘Greyhound.’  Then we shall call for cards, and there will be probably a difference over the cards—­and then, God help us!—­either a wicked villain and traitor shall go out of the world, or a poor worthless devil, that doesn’t care to remain in it.  I am better away, Hal—­my wife will be all the happier when I am gone,” says my lord, with a groan, that tore the heart of Harry Esmond, so that he fairly broke into a sob over his patron’s kind hand.

“The business was talked over with Mohun before he left home—­Castlewood I mean”—­my lord went on.  “I took the letter in to him, which I had read, and I charged him with his villainy, and he could make no denial of it, only he said that my wife was innocent.”

“And so she is; before heaven, my lord, she is!” cries Harry.

“No doubt, no doubt.  They always are,” says my lord.  “No doubt, when she heard he was killed, she fainted from accident.”

“But, my lord, my name is Harry,” cried out Esmond, burning red.  “You told my lady, ‘Harry was killed!’”

“Damnation! shall I fight you too?” shouts my lord in a fury.  “Are you, you little serpent, warmed by my fire, going to sting—­you?—­No, my boy, you’re an honest boy; you are a good boy.” (And here he broke from rage into tears even more cruel to see.) “You are an honest boy, and I love you; and, by heavens, I am so wretched that I don’t care what sword it is that ends me.  Stop, here’s Jack Westbury.  Well, Jack!  Welcome, old boy!  This is my kinsman, Harry Esmond.”

“Who brought your bowls for you at Castlewood, sir?” says Harry, bowing; and the three gentlemen sat down and drank of that bottle of sack which was prepared for them.