of the man that made this appeal to his corrupted
nature. His losses seemed nothing; his dukedom would be too slight a
ransom for freedom from these ghouls, and for the breath of the sweet
air.

He advanced to the Baron, and expressed his desire to play no more.
There was an immediate stir. All jumped up, and now the deed was done.
Cant, in spite of their exhaustion, assumed her reign. They begged him
to have his revenge, were quite annoyed at the result, had no doubt he
would recover if he proceeded. Without noticing their remarks, he seated
himself at the table, and wrote cheques for their respective amounts,
Tom Cogit jumping up and bringing him the inkstand. Lord Castlefort,
in the most affectionate manner, pocketed the draft; at the same time
recommending the Duke not to be in a hurry, but to send it when he was
cool. Lord Dice received his with a bow, Temple Grace with a sigh, the
Baron with an avowal of his readiness always to give him his revenge.

The Duke, though sick at heart, would not leave the room with any
evidence of a broken spirit; and when Lord Castlefort again repeated,
'Pay us when we meet again,' he said, 'I think it very improbable that
we shall meet again, my Lord. I wished to know what gaming was. I had
heard a great deal about it. It is not so very disgusting; but I am a
young man, and cannot play tricks with my complexion.'

He reached his house. The Bird was out. He gave orders for himself not
to be disturbed, and he went to bed; but in vain he tried to sleep. What
rack exceeds the torture of an excited brain and an exhausted body? His
hands and feet were like ice, his brow like fire; his ears rung with
supernatural roaring; a nausea had seized upon him, and death he would
have welcomed. In vain, in vain he courted repose; in vain, in vain he
had recourse to every expedient to wile himself to slumber. Each minute
he started from his pillow with some phrase which reminded him of his
late fearful society. Hour after hour moved on with its leaden pace;
each hour he heard strike, and each hour seemed an age. Each hour was
only a signal to cast off some covering, or shift his position. It was,
at length, morning. With a feeling that he should go mad if he remained
any longer in bed, he rose, and paced his chamber. The air refreshed
him. He threw himself on the floor; the cold crept over his senses, and
he slept.

CHAPTER IX.

_A Duke Without A Friend_

O YE immortal Gods! ye are