A single cast shall decide, as before." "No," replied Wyvil, "I could not resign Amabel, if I lost.

And the luck is all on your side to-night." "As you please," rejoined the knight, sweeping the glittering pile into his pocket.

"Drawer, another bottle of burgundy.

A health to our mistresses!" he added, quaffing a brimmer.
"A health to the grocer's daughter!" cried Wyvil, with difficulty repressing a shudder, as he uttered the pledge.
"A health to the rich widow of Watling-street," cried Pillichody, draining a bumper, "and may I soon call her mine!" "I have no mistress to toast," said Lydyard; "and I have drunk wine enough.

Do not forget, gentlemen, that the plague is abroad." "You are the death's-head at the feast, Lydyard," rejoined Parravicin, setting down his glass.