"I am with you, Mistress Merton," said Mr. Penrose (who had hitherto been quite silent), in his clear, precise voice. "I have always hitherto loved and revered the Archbishop, but I cannot approve his course in this matter. It seems to me far worse than the homicide for which Archbishop Abbot was deprived. I have seen Mr. Prynne's book. I have also seen two or three plays, when I was last in London," (and withal he blushed like a girl,) "and though I like not at all Mr. Prynne's spirit, and believe him to be guilty of dangerous errors in doctrine, I think what he says of the practises of plays and players too well deserved. I am ashamed when I remember the play which I saw played before the king." "And what was that play, Mr. Chaplain, an it like you?" asked my Lord Saville. "It was called, if I mistake not, 'The Gamester,'" answered Mr. Penrose. "I would have you to know, sir, that the plot of that play was furnished to Mr. Shirley the poet by his Majesty's own hands," said Lord Saville, arrogantly, and as if to bear down all before him: "I myself heard the king say it was the best play he had seen in seven years." "So much the worse," said Mr. Penrose, shortly. "I could not have believed it of his Majesty." With that my Lord exploded in a new fury. He put no bounds to his language, but called Mr. Penrose all the opprobrious epithets he could muster, and reproached him with the benefits which had been bestowed upon him in language which I am sure he would not have dared to bestow upon an equal. It was enough to make one ashamed of ever having been in a passion, to see what a pitiful spectacle this man made of himself. Mr. Penrose sat quite still till my Lord paused, from sheer inability to say another word. Then he said, rising from the table, as he spoke: "My Lord, it has been your pleasure to insult at your own table, and before your servants, a gentleman whose birth is as good as your own, and whose family was known and distinguished, when yours was still in obscurity. My profession, if nothing else, forbids me to demand of you the satisfaction which one gentleman owes to another in such a case. I am your debtor, 'tis true, but I am also a gentleman, and a clergyman of the Church of England, and as such entitled to speak my mind. I return upon your hands the benefits with which you reproach me, and which you have rendered more bitter than gall, by your insults, I will be no man's lackey, though I be forced to drudge for my daily bread like any plowman. I here resign both the chaplaincy and the benefice which you have given me, thanking you for any courtesy you have shown me hitherto." And with that he rose from the table, bowed to my Lady and the rest, and took his hat to leave the room. "I will walk with you, Mr. Penrose," said Mr. Corbet, also rising. "Give you good-night, fair ladies." And they left the hall.