"No doubt, no doubt," returned Mr. Lilburn, "but, 'If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee, for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.'" There was a pause broken by young Horace, who had been watching a group of men gathered about a table at the further end of the room. "They are gambling yonder, and I'm afraid that young fellow is being badly fleeced by that middle aged man opposite." The eyes of the whole party were at once turned in that direction. "I'm afraid you're right, Horace," said Mr. Travilla, recalling with an inward shudder, the scene he had witnessed in a gambling hell many years ago, in which the son of his friend Beresford so nearly lost his life. "What can be done to save him? some effort must be made!" and he started up as if with the intention of approaching the players. "Stay a moment," exclaimed Lilburn in an undertone, and laying a detaining hand upon Travilla's arm, but with his gaze intently fixed upon the older gamester. "Ah ha! um h'm! that fellow is certainly cheating. I saw him slip a card from his coat sleeve." The words had scarcely passed his lips when a voice spoke apparently close at the villain's side. "Ah ha, I zees you vell, how you runs de goat shleeve down mit de gards and sheats dat boor poy vat ish blay mit you. Yoh, sir, you ish von pig sheat!" "How dare you, sir? who are you?" cried the rascal, starting up white with rage and turning to face his accuser. "Who was it? where is that Dutch scoundrel that dared accuse me of cheating?" he cried, sending a fierce glance about the room. "Vat ish dat you galls me? von Dutch scoundrel? you man mit de proken nose; I say it again: you ish von pig sheat." This time the voice seemed to come from a stateroom behind the gambler. Towering with rage, he rushed to the door and tried to open it. Failing in that, he demanded admittance in loud angry tones, at the same time shaking the door violently, and kicking against it with a force that seemed likely to break in the panels. There was an answering yell, a sound as of some one bouncing out of his berth upon the floor, the key turned hastily in the lock, the door was thrown wide open, and a little Frenchman appeared on its threshold in night attire, bowie knife and pistol in hand, and black eyes flashing with indignant anger. "Sir, Monsieur, I vil know vat for is dis disturbance of mine slumbers?" "Sir!" said the other, stepping back, instantly cooled down at sight of the weapons, "I beg pardon: was looking for a scoundrel of a Dutchman who has been abusing me, but I see he's not here." "No sir, he is not here!" and the door was slammed violently to. "Ha, ha! man mit de proken nose, you vake up de wrong bassenger. Ha, ha! I dells you again you ish von pig sheat!"