"I wish she were hanged, with all my heart," muttered Fairthorn, "coming here to do such astonishing mischief! But, sir, I can't obey you; 'tis no use talking. You must get some one else. Parson Morley will do it-- with pleasure too, no doubt; or that hobbling old man whom I suspect to be a conjurer. Who knows but what he may get knocked on the head as he is looking on with his wicked one eye; and then there will be an end of him, too, which would be a great satisfaction!" "Pshaw, my dear Dick; there is no one else I can ask but you. The Parson would argue; I've had enough of his arguings; and the old man is the last whom my own arguings could deceive. Fiat justitia." "Don't, sir, don't; you are breaking my heart--'tis a shame, sir," sobbed the poor faithful rebel. "Well, Dick, then I must see it done myself; and you shall go on first to Sorrento, and hire some villa to suit us. I don't see why Lionel should not be married next week; then the house will be clear. And--yes--it was cowardly in me to shrink. Mine be the task. Shame on me to yield it to another. Go back to thy flute, Dick. 'Neque tibias Euterpe cohibet, nec Polyhymnia Lesboum refugit tendere barbiton!'" At that last remorseless shaft from the Horatian quiver, "Venenatis gravida sagittis," Fairthorn could stand ground no longer; there was a shamble--a plunge--and once more the man was vanished. CHAPTER VIII. THE FLUTE-PLAYER SHOWS HOW LITTLE MUSIC HATH POWER TO SOOTHE THE SAVAGE BREAST--OF A MUSICIAN.