your pander, your lackey, your confederate,--that I puff out, in effect,
the last spark of manhood in my sot's body. Oh, I am indeed beholden to you
two! to her for making me a sot, and to you for making me a lackey. But I
will save her from you, Vincent Floyer. Not for her sake"--Orts looked down
upon the prostrate woman and snarled. "Christ, no! But I'll do it for the
sake of the boy I have been, since I owe that boy some reparation. I have
ruined his nimble body, I have dulled the wits he gloried in, I have made
his name a foul thing that honesty spits out of her mouth; but, if God yet
reigns in heaven, I cleanse that name to-night!"

"Oh, bless me," Lord Rokesle observed; "I begin to fear these heroics are
contagious. Possibly I, too, shall begin to rant in a moment. Meanwhile, as
I understand it, you decline to perform the ceremony. I have had to warn
you before this, Simon, that you mustn't take too much gin when I am apt
to need you. You are very pitifully drunk, man. So you defy me and my evil
courses! You defy me!" Rokesle laughed, genially, for the notion amused
him. "Wine is a mocker, Simon. But come, despatch, Parson Tosspot, and
let's have no more of these lofty sentiments."

"I cannot do it. I--O my Lord, my Lord! You wouldn't kill an unarmed man!"
Simon Orts whined, with a sudden alteration of tone; for Lord Rokesle had
composedly drawn his sword, and its point was now not far from the Vicar's
breast.

"I trust that I shall not be compelled to. Egad, it is a very ludicrous
business when the bridegroom is forced to hold a sword to the parson's
bosom all during the ceremony; but a ceremony we must have, Simon, for Lady
Allonby's jointure is considerable. Otherwise--Harkee, my man, don't play
the fool! there are my fellows yonder, any one of whom would twist your
neck at a word from me. And do you think I would boggle at a word? Gad,