“To call you a muddle-headed beast,” said Learmont; “a thick-skulled sot! A brute! A savage! A drivelling drunkard!” “Enough! Enough!” cried Britton; “he dies—had he a hundred lives I’d take them all.” “Now that’s brave,” cried Learmont; “that’s gallant, and like you, Britton. He shall die.” “Die! Of course he shall,” roared Britton. “When shall I seek him? Tell me when?” “To-night.” “To-night? Shall it be to-night?” “Ay, shall it. Meet me on the bridge at midnight, and I will take you to the bedside of Jacob Gray; you shall have your revenge.” “On the bridge, hard by?” “Yes, Britton. At the hour of midnight. Do you not fail. I shall be there.” “Fail! I would be there, squire, if ten thousand devils held me back.” “Away then, now. Drink nothing till that is accomplished. Speak to no one—brood only over your revenge; and when it is done, come to me for any sum you wish. It shall be yours. Jacob Gray now robs you of what you ought to have, Britton.” “I know it, curses on him! But he shall do so no longer.” “He kept you poor for years at the smithy.” “He did.” “And now calls you a drivelling idiot.” “Oh, he dies! He dies!” “Away then now with you; be careful, sober, and trust no one.” “At midnight, squire, on Westminster-bridge.” “Yes; midnight.” The smith shook his clenched hand as he left the room, muttering,— “I shall have my revenge! I shall have my revenge!” Fortune now, indeed, appeared to have favoured the Squire of Learmont, beyond his most sanguine expectations. What was there to stay his progress up the slippery steep of his ambition? Who was there to say to him, “Thus far shalt thou go and no further?” Did not every circumstance conspire to favour his greatest—his most arrogant wishes? Nay, even the very fear and disquiet of the last ten years of his life had unconsciously, as it were, conspired to place him on the proud height he so much panted for, and fancied he should enjoy so truly, for by such circumstances the revenues of the broad estates of Learmont had accumulated to the vast sum which he now had in his hands; a sum so large, that, in a country like England, where even crime has its price, there was no refinement of luxury or vice that he could not command. CHAPTER XXIII. The Projected Murder.—The Unconscious Sleeper.—A Night of Horror.