Now Marse Charles was come to attend the house-party of Marse Beverly Baillie, and was mad with love of Miss Demetria, Marse Beverly’s youngest daughter, who looked above the highest, and had no mind to marry any man. But Marse Charles, in his cloak of green-and-gold lace, swore upon his jewelled sword that he would win. Even now, as he slept, he held between his moist fingers a withered rose that had nestled upon the bosom of the cold Demetria. It was such as this that the devil was loath to leave, and as he blew the seeds of the dandelion ball he sowed the seeds of jealousy in Marse Charles’s heart. Marse Charles sighed in his sleep, and clutched the withered rose; then the night became as daylight to him, and his eyes were wide open. Biding his time, so that jealousy might breed the mushroom hate, the devil lingered, leaving the doubtful hours of the night to pass away; but between midnight and day, when the young man was wellnigh crazed with evil passions, the devil threw off all disguise and stood before him. “Who are you?” cried Marse Charles, springing from his bed and stretching his swollen eyelids in the dusky light as his hand sought his sword. “One who can do you a service,” said the devil, talking fine, for he always chose his language according to his surroundings. Marse Charles’s brain was full of fever, and he put up his sword and listened, while he crushed nervously the rose within his palm. “You are young, you are noble, you have the treasures of the earth before you,” said the devil, soothingly, “and yet you are the most miserable man in all creation.” “What do you know about my misery?” cried Marse Charles, angrily. “What do I _not_ know?” asked the devil, sagely. “I know that you love Demetria, that she disdains you, that you have a rival.” “Ah!” sighed Marse Charles, “that is it—I have a rival! Whoever, whatever you are, aid me if you can, for I am mad with love. I have written a challenge to my rival, that we may settle this at daylight. I was about to send it when you called.” “Not so fast,” said the devil, lifting a warning finger and drawing nearer. “Hot blood is the father of many regrets. Your rival is a better swordsman.” “But ’tis honor! I do this for my honor!” said Marse Charles, loudly, puffing out his breast, frog fashion. “Hush! not so loud! Your honor will do you much credit when you rot in the ground, run through with your rival’s sword,” sneered the devil, “leaving him in possession of Demetria’s favor. My plan is better than that.” “What is your plan, and who the devil are you?” cried Marse Charles, writhing at the possibility of losing Demetria. “That’s just it—I am he,” said the devil, chuckling; and, stretching out his arm, he touched Marse Charles with a hand as soft as velvet. “The world is mine, and I would sit upon a throne, my rightful seat, if it were not for this!” and he kicked out his hoof foot petulantly.