"Glad and sorry!" answered Lord Dalgarno. "That is blowing hot and
cold, with a witness. Hark ye, you picture of petty-larceny
personified--if you are sorry I am a cuckold, remember I am only mine
own, you knave--there is too little blood in her cheeks to have sent
her astray elsewhere. Well, I will bear mine antler'd honours as I
may--gold shall gild them; and for my disgrace, revenge shall sweeten
it. Ay, revenge--and there strikes the happy hour!"
The hour of noon was accordingly heard to peal from Saint Dunstan's.
"Well banged, brave hammers!" said Lord Dalgarno, in triumph.--"The
estate and lands of Glenvarloch are crushed beneath these clanging
blows. If my steel to-morrow prove but as true as your iron maces to-
day, the poor landless lord will little miss what your peal hath cut
him out from.--The papers--the papers, thou varlet! I am to-morrow
Northward, ho! At four, afternoon, I am bound to be at Camlet Moat, in
the Enfield Chase. To-night most of my retinue set forward. The
papers!--Come, dispatch."
"My lord, the--the papers of the Glenvarloch mortgage--I--I have them
not."
"Have them not!" echoed Lord Dalgarno,--"Hast thou sent them to my
lodgings, thou varlet? Did I not say I was coming hither?--What mean
you by pointing to that money? What villainy have you done for it? It
is too large to be come honestly by."
"Your lordship knows best," answered the scrivener, in great
perturbation.
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