“I—I—was only told of it, your majesty, and thought you’d like to hear, that’s all. No offence, your majesty, only they say that there’s been a murder, and the old place where it was done burnt down to destroy the dead body.” “Liar!” cried Britton, making a rush at the landlord. “Who—who dare say half as much? Show me the man, and I’ll take his life! Show his face, and then I shall find his throat!” Everybody rose, and the landlord made good his retreat to the door, where he stood looking at Britton aghast, for he had never seen him in so genuine a rage before. “What do you mean,” growled the butcher, “by coming here and vexing him? Slaughter me if you deserve such a customer. Hands off there, leave him alone, will you?” “It’s a lie,” cried Britton; “there is nobody there to burn, none—none. That woman, that hag, Maud, has trumped up the tale. She is mad, but full of malice—quite full of malice at me, for what I don’t know. Who talks of the body? Who beards and flouts me, I should like to know? Beware, I am Britton, the smith—Beware, I say!” The veins upon his forehead were swollen almost to bursting, and rage imparted to his voice a vehemence which soon destroyed it, for his last words were hoarse and broken, and still muttering only—“Beware!” he suffered the butcher to lead him back to his seat and fill for him a measure of the hot punch, which Britton drank as if it had been so much water. Then he drew a long breath and exclaimed,— “The—villain—to—to—come to me with such a tale. His life—curses on him! His life should be worth more to him than to risk it.” “Be calm!” said the butcher, in a voice that almost shook the rafters of the house. “Be calm; give care the go by, and drown all sorts of disagreeables in drink. There is nothing like it, you may depend, whether you’re a butcher or a king. Take another glass, by boy, and swear away. That’s one o’ the comforts of life too, gentlemen. Now I’m a butcher, and as humane a individual as is in all Westminster; and if anybody says I isn’t, I’ll put my slaughtering knife in his inside.” Britton was quiet for a few moments, partly from exhaustion and partly because he was nearly choked with another measure of punch which he threw into his throat rather heedlessly, and the landlord, when the butcher had done speaking, took the opportunity of throwing in a word of personal justification, for he was quite alarmed at the riot he had created, as he supposed, with such very slender materials. “Your majesty,” he said, “will humbly excuse me, but there is a fire at Battersea, and they do say there’s been a murder.” “At—at—where?” cried Britton. “At Battersea. From the back window of the room up stairs, adjoining your gracious majesty’s, you may see the sky as red as—as—anything.” “Oh—at Battersea—to-night?” “Yes—even now. It was one of Sir Francis Hartleton’s men who said there had been a murder.”