as suddenly summoned, in a case of
urgency, by a messenger from Sibbald, the apothecary of Clerkenwell.

X.

THE DUEL.

After Parravicin's terrible announcement, Disbrowe offered him no
further violence, but, flinging down his sword, burst open the door, and
rushed upstairs. His wife was still insensible, but the fatal mark that
had betrayed the presence of the plague to the knight manifested itself
also to him, and he stood like one entranced, until Mrs. Disbrowe,
recovering from her swoon, opened her eyes, and, gazing at him,
cried--"You here!--Oh Disbrowe, I dreamed you had deserted me--had sold
me to another."

"Would it were a dream!" replied her husband.

"And was it not so?" she rejoined, pressing her hand to her temples. "It
is true! oh! yes, I feel it is. Every circumstance rushes upon me
plainly and distinctly. I see the daring libertine before me. He stood
where you stand, and told me what you had done."

"What did he tell you, Margaret?" asked Disbrowe in a hollow voice.

"He told me you were false--that you loved another, and had abandoned
me."

"He lied!" exclaimed Disbrowe, in a voice of uncontrollable fury. "It is
true that, in a moment of frenzy, I was tempted to set you--yes, _you_,
Margaret--against all I had lost at play, and was compelled to yield up
the key of my house to the winner. But I have never been faithless to
you--never."

"Faithless or not," replied his wife, bitterly, "it is plain you value
me less than play, or you would not have acted thus."

"Reproach me not, Margaret," replied Disbrowe; "I would give worlds to
undo what I have done."

"Who shall guard me against the recurrence of such conduct?" said Mrs.
Disbrowe, coldly. "But you have not yet informed me how I was saved."

Disbrowe averted his head.

"What mean you?" she cried, seizing his arm. "What has happened? Do not
keep me in suspense? Were you my preserver?"

"Your preserver was the plague," rejoined Disbrowe, in a sombre tone.

The unfortunate lady then, for the first time, perceived that she was
attacked by the pestilence, and a long and dreadful pause ensued, broken
only by exclamations of anguish from both.

"Disbrowe!" cried Margaret, at length, raising herself in bed, "you have
deeply--irrecoverably injured me. But promise me one thing."

"I swear to do whatever you may desire," he replied.

"I know not, after what I have heard, whether you have courage for the
deed," she continued. "But I would