"True, Sir Robert; most unquestionably; there cannot be a shadow of doubt of it. But you see further, that this circumstance accounts for the man's desperate conduct. You, Sir Robert, will discover the motive for his crime--you, I say, will discover it without difficulty, on your giving your mind to the examination; for my part, I cannot help suspecting the moving spring to have been revenge for the gallantry with which Mr. Hazlewood, with all the spirit of his renowned forefathers, defended the house at Woodbourne against this villain and his lawless companions." "I will inquire into it, my good sir," said the learned Baronet. "Yet even now I venture to conjecture that I shall adopt the solution or explanation of this riddle, enigma, or mystery, which you have in some degree thus started. Yes! revenge it must be--and, good Heaven! entertained by and against whom?--entertained, fostered, cherished, against young Hazlewood of Hazlewood, and in part carried into effect, executed, and implemented, by the hand of Vanbeest Brown! These are dreadful days indeed, my worthy neighbour (this epithet indicated a rapid advance in the Baronet's good graces)--days when the bulwarks of society are shaken to their mighty base, and that rank, which forms, as it were, its highest grace and ornament, is mingled and confused with the viler parts of the architecture. Oh, my good Mr. Gilbert Glossin, in my time, sir, the use of swords and pistols, and such honourable arms, were reserved by the nobility and gentry to themselves, and the disputes of the vulgar were decided by the weapons which nature had given them, or by cudgels cut, broken, or hemmed out of the next wood. But now, sir, the clouted [*Patched ] shoe of the peasant galls the kibe of the courtier. The lower ranks have their quarrels, sir, and their points of honour, and their revenges, which they must bring, forsooth, to fatal arbitrament. But well, well! it will last my time--let us have in this fellow, this Vanbeest Brown, and make an end of him at least for the present." CHAPTER XLIII. --'Twas he ye Gave heat unto the injury, which returned, Like a petard ill lighted, into the bosom Of him gave fire to't. Yet I hope his hurt Is not so dangerous but he may recover. Fair Maid of the Inn.