Mistress Wilding
Protestant Duke and his right to the crown of England.     

       He was still at his talk, Richard listening moodily what time he was slowly but surely befuddling himself, when Sir Rowland—returning from Scoresby Hall—came to bring the news of his lack of success. Richard hailed him noisily, and bade him ring for another glass, adding, with a burst of oaths, some appalling threats of how anon he should serve Anthony Wilding. His wits drowned in the stiff liquor Vallancey had pressed upon him, he seemed of a sudden to have grown as fierce and bloodthirsty as any scourer that ever terrorized the watch.     

       Blake listened to him and grunted. “Body o' me!” swore the town gallant.       “If that's the humour you're going out to fight in, I'll trouble you for the eight guineas I won from you at Primero yesterday before you start.”      

       Richard reared himself, by the help of the table, and stood a thought unsteadily, his glance laboriously striving to engage Blake's.     

       “Damn me!” quoth he. “Your want of faith dishgraces me—and 't       'shgraces you. Shalt ha' the guineas when we're back—and not before.”      

       “Hum!” quoth Blake, to whom eight guineas were a consideration in these bankrupt days. “And if you don't come back at all upon whom am I to draw?”      

       The suggestion sank through Dick's half-fuddled senses, and the scare it gave him was reflected on his face.     

       “Damn you, Blake!” swore Vallancey between his teeth. “Is that a decent way to talk to a man who is going out? Never heed him, Dick! Let him wait for his dirty guineas till we return.”      

       “Thirty guineas?” hiccoughed Richard. “It was only eight. Anyhow—wait'll I've sli' the gullet of's Mr. Wilding.” He checked on a thought that suddenly occurred to him. He turned to Vallancey with a ludicrous solemnity. “'Sbud!” he swore. “'S a scurvy trick I'm playing the Duke. 'S treason to him—treason no less.” And he smote the table with his open hand.     

       “What's that?” quoth Blake so sharply, his eyes so suddenly alert that Vallancey made haste to cover up his fellow rebel's indiscretion.     

       “It's the brandy-and-Canary makes him dream,” said he with a laugh, and rising as he spoke 
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