That a gentry so embarrassed, and with such prospects of ruin before them, should have been easy victims to Ministerial seduction, is far less surprising than that so many were to be seen who could prefer their integrity to the rich bribes of Government patronage; and it is a redeeming feature of the day that amid all the lavish and heedless course of prodigality and excess there were some who could face poverty with stouter hearts than they could endure the stigma of gilded corruption: nor is it the history of every Parliament that can say as much. Let us leave this theme, even at the hazard of being misunderstood, for the moment, by our reader, and turn to the Knight of Gwynne, who now was seated at his breakfast in a large parlor of his house in Henrietta Street. Sad and deserted as it seems now, this was in those days the choice residence of Irish aristocracy, and the names of peers and baronets on every door told of a class which, now, should be sought for in scattered fragments among the distant cities of the Continent. The Knight was reading the morning papers, in which, amid the fashionable news, was an account of his own wager with Lord Drogheda, when a carriage drove up hastily to the door, and, immediately after, the loud summons of a footman resounded through the street. While the Knight was yet wondering who this early visitor should prove, the servant announced Mr. Con Heffernan. “The very man I wished to see,” cried Darcy, eagerly; “tell me all about this unfortunate business. But, first of all, is he out of danger?” “Quite safe. I understand, for a time, it was a very doubtful thing; Daly's surgery, it would seem, rather increased the hazard. He began searching for the ball regardless of the bleeding, and the young fellow was very near sinking under loss of blood.” “The whole affair was his doing!” said the Knight, impatiently. “How Mr. MacDonough could have found himself at _my_ table is more than I can well imagine; that when he got there, something like this would follow, does not surprise me. Daly is really too bad. Well, well, I hoped to have set off for the abbey to-day, but I must stay here, I find; Drogheda is kind enough to let me redeem Ballydermot, and I must see Gleeson about it. It's rather a heavy blow just now.” “I am afraid I am not altogether blameless,” said Heffernan, timidly. “I ought not to have mentioned that unlucky business till the game was over; but I thought your nerve was proof against anything.” “So it was, Heffernan,” said the Knight, laughing, “some five-and-twenty years ago; but this shattered wreck has little remains of the old three-decker. I should have won that game.” “It's all past and over now, so never think more about it.” “Yes, I should have won the game. Drogheda saw my advantage: he went on with the very suit in my hand, and when he reached over for his snuff-box, his hand trembled like in an ague-fit.”