reats would scarcely deter me from acting
as I think proper, I have no inclination for marriage at present. What a
pity, Etherege, that one cannot in these affairs have the money oneself,
and give the wife to one's friend."

"That is easily accomplished," replied Etherege, laughingly; "especially
where you have a friend so devoted as myself. But do you mean to carry
off Amabel to-night?"

"Ay, now we come to business," interposed Pillichody. "Bolts and
barricadoes! your lordship has only to say the word, and I will break
into the house, and bear her off for you."

"Your former conduct is a good guarantee for your present success,
truly," returned Rochester, with a sneer. "No, no; I shall postpone my
design for the present. I have ascertained, from the source whence I
obtained information of Amabel's illness, that she is to be removed into
the country. This will exactly suit my purpose, and put her completely
in my power."

"Then nothing is to be done to-night?" said Pillichody, secretly
congratulating himself on his escape. "By my sword! I feel equal to the
most desperate attempt."

"Your courage and dexterity must be reserved for some more favourable
occasion," replied Rochester.

"If not to carry off the girl, I must again inquire why your lordship
has come hither?" demanded Etherege.

"To be frank with you, my sole motive was to gaze at the house that
contains her," replied Rochester, in a voice that bespoke his sincerity.
"I have before told you that she has a strong hold upon my heart. I have
not seen her for some weeks, and during that time have endeavoured to
obliterate her image by making love to a dozen others. But it will not
do. She still continues absolute mistress of my affections. I sometimes
think, if I can obtain her in no other way, I shall be rash enough to
marry her."

"Pshaw! this must never be," said Etherege.

"Were I to lose her altogether, I should be inconsolable," cried
Rochester.

"As inconsolable as I am for the rich widow of Watling-street, who died
a fortnight ago of the plague, and left her wealth to her footman,"
replied Pillichody, drawing forth his handkerchief and applying it to
his eyes--"oh! oh!"

"Silence, fool!" cried Rochester: "I am in no mood for buffoonery. If
you shed tears for any one, it should be for your master."

"Truly, I am grieved for him," replied Pillichody; "but I object to the
term 'master.' Sir Paul Parravicin, as he chooses to be called, is my
pa