stress a chair; give me my robe-de'chambre. Confound me, if it's not
getting like the kingdom of Prussia on the map, full of very straggling
dependencies. Supper, Saladin!"

"The sorrow taste--"

"What, thou piece of human ebony! what do you say?"

"Me hab no--a--ting in de larder," cried the child, in a broken voice.

"Isn't there a back of a duck and two slices of cold bacon?" asked the
lady, in the tone of a cross-examining barrister.

"I poisoned the bacon for the rats, Miss; and for the duck--"

"Let me strangle him with my own hands," shouted the man; "let me tear
him up into merrythoughts. Look here, sirrah," said he, in a voice like
John Kemble's; "there may be nothing which man eats within these walls;
there may not be wherewithal to regale a sickly fly,--no, not enough for
one poor spider to lunch upon; but if you ever dare to reply to me, save
in Oriental phrase, I 'll throw you in a sack, call my mutes, and hurl
you into the Bosphorus."

"Where, sir?"

"The Dodder, you son of a burned father! My hookah."

"My slippers," repeated the lady.

"My lute, and the sherbet," added the gentleman.

By the stir in the chamber, these arrangements, or something equivalent
to them, seemed to have taken place; when again I heard,--"Dance a
lively measure, Saladin; my soul is heavy."

Here a most vile tinkling of a guitar was heard, to which, by the sounds
of the feet, I could perceive Saladin was moving in a species of dance.

"Let the child go to bed, and don't be making a fool of yourself," said
the lady, in a voice of bursting passion.

"Thank Heaven," said I, half aloud, "she isn't mad."

"Tink, tink, a - tink - a - tink, tink - a - tink - a - dido!" thrummed
out her companion. "I say, Saladin, heat me a little porter, with an egg
and some sugar."

[Illustration: Saldin Danceth a Lively Measure 127]

The door closed as the imp made his exit, and there was silence for some
seconds, during which my uppermost thought was, "What infernal mischance
has thrown me into a lunatic asylum?" At length the man spoke,--

"I say, Anna Maria, Cradock has this run of luck a long time."

"He plays better than you," responded the lady, sharply.

"I deny it," rejoined he, angrily. "I play whist better than any man
that ever lived, except the Begum of Soutancantantarahad, who beat my
father. They played for lacs of rupees on the points, and a territory on
the rub; five to two, first game against the loser, in white