“Let me strangle him with my own hands,” shouted the man; “let me tear him up into merrythoughts. Look here, sirrah,” said he, in a voice like John Kemble's; “there may be nothing which man eats within these walls; there may not be wherewithal to regale a sickly fly,--no, not enough for one poor spider to lunch upon; but if you ever dare to reply to me, save in Oriental phrase, I 'll throw you in a sack, call my mutes, and hurl you into the Bosphorus.” “Where, sir?” “The Dodder, you son of a burned father! My hookah.” “My slippers,” repeated the lady. “My lute, and the sherbet,” added the gentleman. By the stir in the chamber, these arrangements, or something equivalent to them, seemed to have taken place; when again I heard,--“Dance a lively measure, Saladin; my soul is heavy.” Here a most vile tinkling of a guitar was heard, to which, by the sounds of the feet, I could perceive Saladin was moving in a species of dance. “Let the child go to bed, and don't be making a fool of yourself,” said the lady, in a voice of bursting passion. “Thank Heaven,” said I, half aloud, “she isn't mad.” “Tink, tink, a - tink - a - tink, tink - a - tink - a - dido!” thrummed out her companion. “I say, Saladin, heat me a little porter, with an egg and some sugar.” [Illustration: Saldin Danceth a Lively Measure 127] The door closed as the imp made his exit, and there was silence for some seconds, during which my uppermost thought was, “What infernal mischance has thrown me into a lunatic asylum?” At length the man spoke,-- “I say, Anna Maria, Cradock has this run of luck a long time.” “He plays better than you,” responded the lady, sharply. “I deny it,” rejoined he, angrily. “I play whist better than any man that ever lived, except the Begum of Soutancantantarahad, who beat my father. They played for lacs of rupees on the points, and a territory on the rub; five to two, first game against the loser, in white elephants.” “How you do talk!” said Anna Maria. “Do you forget that all this rubbish does n't go down with me?” “Well, I mean old Hickory, that had the snuffshop in Bath, used only to give me one point in the rub, and we played for sixpence; damme, I 'll not forget it,--he cleaned me out in no time. Tink, tink, a-tink-a-tink, tink-a-tinka-dido! Here, Saladin! bear me the spicy cup, ambrosial boy!” “Ahem!” said the lady, in a tone that didn't sound exactly like concurrence. “Eat a few dates, and then repose,” said the deep voice. “I wish I had them, av they were eatable,” said Saladin, as he turned away. “Wretch, you have forgotten to salaam; exit slowly. Tink, tink, a-tink-a-tink! Anna Maria, he's devilish good now for black parts; I think I'll make Jones bring him out. Wouldn't it be original to make Othello talk broken English? 'Farewell de camp!' Eh, by Jove! that 's a fine thought. 'De spirit stir a drum, de piercy pipe.' By Jove! I like that notion.”