_Wyck._ As for your brother, in these troublesome times, as I said, it were less trouble to put him out of the way in a broil. Colour it with the affectation of party spirit, and, as you are on both sides, in a manner, it matters not on which you disagree. You might draw swords yourselves, and have me and one or two stout fellows near, who would rush in and stab him, as it were, to prevent mischief between you. _Basil._ I tell you, it will not do. He is a favourite with Cromwell. How often am I to tell you that I would not break with Noll. There are secrets! You see one does not know yet which side will prevail. _Wyck._ Well, I cannot help you. If, now, it were to circumvent a woman, to betray a saucy piece of virtue--then I would go great lengths in deception; remind me that I tell thee a story will make thee laugh. 'Twas ere my trip to America. I would have sold her to the plantations. 'Sblood, will not that do for him?-- _Basil._ I tell there is better. _Wyck._ Doth he know that by your father's disposition of the property, his relinquishment of it in your favour is void! I say, the old fellow knew thee well, eh? [_Laughs._] _Basil._ Curse on thy ribald jests; keep them for the girls thou betrayest. No, no, he knows nothing. _Wyck._ Let me tell thee of the girl. She loved a mean fellow that was her father's apprentice, and perspired in good behaving. A tremulous young man; with hissing red cheeks and a clump hand that looked through his fingers during evening prayers at the maid-servants, as they knelt; yet cried "Amen" with a reverence, and had the gift to find his own bedchamber afterward. It was a mercy to pave her from him, for they had surely procreated fools. Yet she liked not the sea, and one night she fell overboard in a calm, and the sharks had a white morsel. She walked in her sleep. I wish, though, she had left her ear-rings behind. _Basil._ Hush! hush! _Wyck._ Thus it is to be such a fellow as you. You pretend to be so tender-hearted. Well, I never wished to kill my brother. If I had one I could love him, unless he were a damned scrupulous sinner, that makes faces at doing what he is always wishing. Why, hark you, with your peccadilloes, you resemble a monkey over a hot dish of roasted chestnuts; you keep grinning round with your mouth watering, till they get cold, before you taste. _Basil._ I tell thee that I hate him and fear him not. Would that his blood might freeze upon my door-step on a December night! If he were here now, I would stab him before thee. _Wyck._ Ay, in the back. _Basil._ But I have a plan that shall undo him most securely. Come in here, and I will tell thee over a stoup of right claret. _Wyck._ Now you speak reason; for I am but a dry rogue, and am never fit for much early in the morning, without I sit up all night. [_Exeunt, L._] SCENE III. [_Last Cut._] [_2nd Grooves._]