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“Miss Allonby,” said I, in a falsetto voice which trembled, “since I am unknown to you, may I trust you will permit me to present myself? My name–though, indeed, I have a multitude of names–is for the occasion Frederick Thomasson. With my father’s appellation and estates I cannot accommodate you, for the reason that a mystery attaches to his identity. As for my mother, let it suffice to say that she was a vivacious brunette of a large acquaintance, and generally known to the public as Black Moll O’Reilly. I began life as a pickpocket. Since then I have so far improved my natural gifts that the police are flattering enough to value my person at several hundred pounds. My rank in society, as you perceive, is not exalted; yet, if my luck by any chance should fail, I do not question that I shall, upon some subsequent Friday, move in loftier circles than any nobleman who happens at the time to be on Tyburn Hill.–So much for my poor self. And since by this late hour Lady Allonby is beyond doubt beginning to grow uneasy, let us have done with further exposition, and remember that ’tis high time you selected an escort to her residence. May I implore that you choose between the son of the Marquis of Venour and Black Molly’s bastard?”

She looked us over,–first one, then the other. More lately she laughed; and if I had never seen her before, I could have found it in my heart to love her for the sweet insolence of her demeanor.

“After all,” said my adored Dorothy, “I prefer the rogue who when he goes about his knaveries has at least the decency to wear a mask.”

“That, my Lord,” said I, “is fairly conclusive; and so we will be journeying.”

“Over my dead body!” says he.

“Sure, and what’s beneath the feet,” I protested, “is equally beneath consideration.”

The witticism stung him like a wasp, and, with an oath, he drew, as I was heartily glad to observe, for I cannot help thinking that when it comes to the last pinch, and one gentleman is excessively annoyed by the existence of another, steel is your only arbiter, and charitable allowances for the dead make the one rational peroration. So we crossed blades; and, pursuing my usual tactics, I began upon a flow of words, which course, as I have learned by old experience, is apt to disconcert an adversary far more than any trick of the sword can do.

I pressed him sorely, and he continued to give way, but clearly for tactical purposes, and without permitting the bright flash of steel that protected him to swerve an instant from the proper line.

“Miss Allonby,” said I, growing impatient, “have you never seen a venomous insect pinned to the wall? In that case, I pray you to attend more closely. For one has only to parry–thus! And to thrust–in this fashion! And behold, the thing is done!”

In fact, having been run through the chest, my Lord was for the moment affixed to the panelling at the extreme end of the apartment, where he writhed, much in the manner of a cockchafer which mischievous urchins have pinned to a card,–his mien and his gesticulations, however, being rather more suggestive of the torments of the damned, as they are so strikingly depicted by the Italian Dante. [Footnote: I allude, of course, to the famous Florentine, who excels no less in his detailed depictions of infernal anguish than in his eloquent portrayal of the graduated and equitable emoluments of an eternal glorification.–F.A.] He tumbled in a heap, though, when I sheathed my sword and bowed toward my charmer.

“Miss Allonby,” said I, “thus quickly ends this evil quarter of an hour; and with, equal expedition, I think, should we be leaving this evil quarter of the town.”

She had watched the combat with staring and frightened eyes. Now she had drawn nearer, and she looked curiously at her over-presumptuous lover where he had fallen.