aught any other);
"down on your marrow-bones at once, or here goes for your
gizzard!" and he drew his sword with a flourish.

So this was the rough diamond--the epitome of common sense! Why,
he was a half-witted, impertinent, overbearing booby, and his
author longed to get him across his knee, and correct him in the
good old way. But meantime the point of the young warrior's
sword was getting unpleasantly near the left breast-pocket of
the author's dressing gown (which he wore at the time), and the
latter happened to recollect, with a nervous thrill, that this
was the sword which mortally wounded the traitor lover (for whom
Sam evidently mistook him) during the stirring combat so vividly
described in the twenty-second chapter. Could he but have
foreseen the future, what a different ending that engagement
should have had! But again it was too late, and the author sprang
behind the big easy chair with astonishing agility, and from that
vantage ground endeavored to bring on a parley.

Yet how could he argue and expostulate against himself? How
arraign Sam of harboring murderous designs which he had himself
implanted in his bosom? How, indeed, expect him to comprehend
conversation so entirely foreign to his experience? It was an
awkward dilemma.

It was Sam who took it by the horns. Somebody, he felt, must be
mortally wounded; and finding himself defrauded of one subject,
he took up with the next he encountered, which chanced to be none
other than the venerable and white-haired gentleman who filled
the position, in the tale, of a wealthy and benevolent uncle. The
author, having always felt a sentiment of exceptional respect and
admiration for this reverend and patriarchal personage, who
by his gentle words and sage counsels, no less than his noble
generosity, had done so much to elevate and sweeten the tone
of his book, fell into an ecstasy of terror at witnessing the
approach of his seemingly inevitable destruction; especially as
he perceived that the poor old fellow (who never in his life had
met with aught but reverence and affection, and knew nothing
of the nature of deadly weapons and impulses) was, so far, from
attempting to defend himself, or even escape, actually opening
his arms to the widest extent of avuncular hospitality, and
preparing to take his assassin, sword and all, into his fond and
forgiving heart!

"You old fool!" shrieked the author, in the excess of his
irritation and despair; "he isn't your r