“High, ho!” interposes Keepum, “what airs these sort of people put on, eh?  Don’t amount to much, no how; they soon get over them, you know.  A blasted deal of assumption, as you say.  Ha, ha, ha!  I rather like this sort of modesty.  ’Tis n’t every one can put it on cleverly.”  Mr. Snivel winks to Keepum, who makes an ineffectual attempt to extinguish the light, which Maria seizes in her hand, and summoning her courage, stands before them in a defiant attitude, an expression of hate and scorn on her countenance.  “Ah, fiend! you take this liberty-you seek to destroy me because I am poor-because you think me humble-an easy object to prey upon.  I am neither a stranger to the world nor your cowardly designs; and so long as I have life you shall not gloat over the destruction of my virtue.  Approach me at your peril-knaves!  You have compromised my father; you have got him in your grasp, that you may the more easily destroy me.  But you will be disappointed, your perfidy will recoil on yourselves:  though stripped of all else, I will die protecting that virtue you would not dare to offend but for my poverty.”  This unexpected display of resolution has the effect of making the position of the intruders somewhat uncomfortable.  Mr. Keepum, whose designs Snivel would put in execution, sinks, cowardly, upon the sofa, while his compatriot (both are celebrated for their chivalry) stands off apace endeavoring to palliate the insult with facetious remarks. (This chivalry of ours is a mockery, a convenient word in the foul mouths of fouler ruffians.) Mr. Snivel makes a second attempt to overcome the unprotected girl.  With every expression of hate and scorn rising to her face, she bids him defiance.  Seeing himself thus firmly repulsed, he begs to assure her, on the word of a gentleman-a commodity always on hand, and exceedingly cheap with us-he was far from intending an insult.  He meant it for a bit of a good turn-nothing more.  “Always fractious at first-these sort of people are,” pursues Keepum, relighting his cigar as he sits on the sofa, squinting his right eye.  “Take bravely to gentlemen after a little display of modesty-always!  Try her again, Squire.”  Mr. Snivel dashes the candle from her hand, and in the darkness grasps her wrists.  The enraged girl shrieks, and calls aloud for assistance.  Simultaneously a blow fells Mr. Snivel to the floor.  The voice of Tom Swiggs is heard, crying:  “Wretch! villain!—­what brings you here?  (Mr. Keepum, like the coward, who fears the vengeance he has merited, makes good his escape.) Will you never cease polluting the habitations of the poor?  Would to God there was justice for the poor, as well as law for the rich; then I would make thee bite the dust, like a dying viper.  You should no longer banquet on poor virtue.  Wretch!—­I would teach thee that virtue has its value with the poor as well as the rich;—­that with the true gentleman it is equally sacred.”  Tom stands a few moments over the trembling miscreant, Maria sinks into a chair, and with her elbows resting on the table, buries her face in her hands and gives vent to her tears.