The father-in-law was too much enraged to say any more. So he proceeded to settle the affair in his own way. He did not threaten "divorce;"--did not even mention "separate maintenance." Nothing of the kind. His course was altogether different. From beneath his capacious buff waistcoat, he drew forth a cow-hide--a veritable cow-hide,--and grasped it firmly. "Don't strike a man of my cloth," cried Bulgin. The only answer was a blow across the face, which left its livid mark on the nose and cheeks. The good Doctor bawled and ran. The father-in-law pursued, giving the cow-hide free play over the head and shoulders of the Doctor. And the wife, with baby on her bosom, pursued her father,--"Don't, father, don't!" Thus, the chase led round the room; the howls of the Doctor, the blows of the whip, the falling of chairs, and trampling of feet, forming, altogether, a striking chorus. And to add the feather to the camel's back, the baby lifted up its voice in the midst of the scene. Mr. Potts, Mr. Burns, and Mr. Watkins, mounted on the sofa, so that they might not be in the way. As for the cloaked gentleman, leaning against the door, he laughed,--yes, perhaps for the first time in thirty years. After making the circuit of the room three or four times, the scarlet attire of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin hung in rags upon his back; and the old man, red in the face, bathed in perspiration, and out of breath, sank panting in a chair. He glanced at his daughter, who sat weeping in a corner, and then at the Rev. Doctor, who, with the figure of the letter X welted across his face, was rubbing his bruises in another corner. "Now, sir, if ever I catch you at anything of this kind, if I don't lick you, my name ain't Jenkins!" CHAPTER VI. BANK-STOCK AT THE BAR. The Court of Ten Millions was once more in session. The judge was once more in his seat; his form enveloped in the coat with many capes, his features shadowed by the hat with ample brim. But the beautiful Esther was no longer on his left, nor the giant negro on his right. The great statesman, with the somber brow and masquerade attire of Roderick Borgia, no longer sat in the seat of the criminal. The scene was altogether changed, although the candle on the table still shed its beams around that room, whose black hangings were fringed with gold, and whose gloomy ceiling represented a stormy sky, with the sun struggling among its clouds.