“In plain terms,” answered Bucklaw, “because I am a fool, who have gambled away my land in thse times.  My grand-aunt, Lady Girnington, has taen a new tack of life, I think, and I could only hope to get something by a change of government.  Craigie was a sort of gambling acquaintance; he saw my condition, and, as the devil is always at one’s elbow, told me fifty lies about his credentials from Versailles, and his interest at Saint Germains, promised me a captain’s commission at Paris, and I have been ass enough to put my thumb under his belt.  I dare say, by this time, he has told a dozen pretty stories of me to the government.  And this is what I have got by wine, women, and dice, cocks, dogs, and horses.”

“Yes, Bucklaw,” said the Master, “you have indeed nourished in your bosom the snakes that are now stinging you.”

“That’s home as well as true, Master,” replied his companion; “but, by your leave, you have nursed in your bosom one great goodly snake that has swallowed all the rest, and is as sure to devour you as my half-dozen are to make a meal on all that’s left of Bucklaw, which is but what lies between bonnet and boot-heel.”

“I must not,” answered the Master of Ravenswood, “challenge the freedom of speech in which I have set example.  What, to speak without a metaphor, do you call this monstrous passion which you charge me with fostering?”

“Revenge, my good sir—­revenge; which, if it be as gentle manlike a sin as wine and wassail, with their et coeteras, is equally unchristian, and not so bloodless.  It is better breaking a park-pale to watch a doe or damsel than to shoot an old man.”

“I deny the purpose,” said the Master of Ravenswood.  “On my soul, I had no such intention; I meant but to confront the oppressor ere I left my native land, and upbraid him with his tyranny and its consequences.  I would have stated my wrongs so that they would have shaken his soul within him.”

“Yes,” answered Bucklaw, “and he would have collared you, and cried ‘help,’ and then you would have shaken the soul out of him, I suppose.  Your very look and manner would have frightened the old man to death.”

“Consider the provocation,” answered Ravenswood—­“consider the ruin and death procured and caused by his hard-hearted cruelty—­an ancient house destroyed, an affectionate father murdered!  Why, in our old Scottish days, he that sat quiet under such wrongs would have been held neither fit to back a friend nor face a foe.”

“Well, Master, I am glad to see that the devil deals as cunningly with other folk as he deals with me; for whenever I am about to commit any folly, he persuades me it is the most necessary, gallant, gentlemanlike thing on earth, and I am up to saddlegirths in the bog before I see that the ground is soft.  And you, Master, might have turned out a murd——­a homicide, just out of pure respect for your father’s memory.”

“There is more sense in your language, Bucklaw,” replied the Master, “than might have been expected from your conduct.  It is too true, our vices steal upon us in forms outwardly as fair as those of the demons whom the superstitious represent as intriguing with the human race, and are not discovered in their native hideousness until we have clasped them in our arms.”