her before I am done. It is very true, that your sister
was indeed joined in marriage with this same Bulmer, that calls himself
by the title of Etherington; but it is just as true, that the marriage
is not worth a maravedi, for she believed him at the time to be another
person--to be, in a word, Francis Tyrrel, who is actually what the other
pretends to be, a nobleman of fortune."

"I cannot understand one word of all this," said Mowbray. "I must to my
sister instantly, and demand of her if there be any real foundation for
these wonderful averments."

"Do not go," said Touchwood, detaining him, "you shall have a full
explanation from me; and to comfort you under your perplexity, I can
assure you that Cargill's consent to celebrate the nuptials, was only
obtained by an aspersion thrown on your sister's character, which
induced him to believe that speedy marriage would be the sole means of
saving her reputation; and I am convinced in my own mind it is only the
revival of this report which has furnished the foundation of Lady
Penelope's chattering."

"If I could think so"--said Mowbray, "if I could but think this is
truth--and it seems to explain, in some degree, my sister's mysterious
conduct--if I could but think it true, I should fall down and worship
you as an angel from heaven!"

"A proper sort of angel," said Touchwood, looking modestly down on his
short, sturdy supporters--"Did you ever hear of an angel in boot-hose?
Or, do you suppose angels are sent to wait on broken-down
horse-jockeys?"

"Call me what you will, Mr. Touchwood," said the young man, "only make
out your story true, and my sister innocent!"

"Very well spoken, sir," answered the senior, "very well spoken! But
then I understand, you are to be guided by my prudence and experience?
None of your G-- damme doings, sir--your duels or your drubbings. Let
_me_ manage the affair for you, and I will bring you through with a
flowing sail."

"Sir, I must feel as a gentleman,"--said Mowbray.

"Feel as a fool," said Touchwood, "for that is the true case. Nothing
would please this Bulmer better than to fight through his rogueries--he
knows very well, that he who can slit a pistol-ball on the edge of a
penknife, will always preserve some sort of reputation amidst his
scoundrelism--but I shall take care to stop that hole. Sit down--be a
man of sense, and listen to the whole of this strange story."

Mowbray sat down accordingly; and Touchwood, in his own way