University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
GAMBLING AMONG THE ANCIENT HINDOOS. — A HINDOO LEGEND AND ITS MODERN PARALLEL.

THE recent great contribution to the history of India, published by Mr Wheeler,[15] gives a complete insight into this interesting topic; and this passage of the ancient Sanskrit epic forms one of the most wonderful and thrilling scenes in that most acceptable publication.

As Mr Wheeler observes, the specialties of Hindoo gambling are worthy of some attention. The passion for play, which has ever been the vice of warriors in times of peace, becomes a madness amidst the lassitude of a tropical climate; and more than one Hindoo legend has been preserved of Rajas playing together for days, until the wretched

loser has been deprived of everything he possessed and reduced to the condition of an exile or a slave.

But gambling amongst the Hindoos does not appear to have been altogether dependent upon chance. The ancient Hindoo dice, known by the name of coupun, are almost precisely similar to the modern dice, being thrown out of a box; but the practice of loading is plainly alluded to, and some skill seems to have been occasionally exercised in the rattling of the dice-box. In the more modern game, known by the name of pasha, the dice are not cubic, but oblong; and they are thrown from the hand either direct upon the ground, or against a post or board, which will break the fall, and render the result more a matter of chance.

The great gambling match of the Hindoo epic was the result of a conspiracy to ruin Yudhishthira, a successful warrior, the representative of a mighty family — the Pandavas, who were incessantly pursued by the envy of the Kauravas, their rivals. The fortunes of the Pandavas were at the height of human prosperity; and at this point the universal conception of an avenging Nemesis that humbles the proud and casts down the mighty, finds full expression in the Hindoo epic. The grandeur of the

Pandavas excited the jealousy of Duryodhana, and revived the old feud between the Kauravas and the former. Duryodhana plotted with his brother Duhsasana and his uncle Sakuni, how they might dispossess the Pandavas of their newly-acquired territory; and at length they determined to invite their kinsmen to a gambling match, and seek by underhand means to deprive Yudhishthira of his Raj, or kingdom.[16]

It appears from the poem that Yudhishthira was invited to a game at coupun; and the legend of the great gambling match, which took place at Hastinapur, is related as follows:

`And it came to pass that Duryodhana was very jealous of the Rajasuya or triumph that his cousin Yudhishthira had performed, and he desired in his heart to destroy the Pandavas, and gain possession of their Raj. Now Sakuni was the brother of Gandhari, who was the mother of the Kauravas; and he was very skilful in throwing dice, and in playing with dice that were loaded; insomuch that

whenever he played he always won the game. So Duryodhana plotted with his uncle, that Yudhishthira should be invited to a match at gambling, and that Sakuni should challenge him to a game, and win all his wealth and lands.

`After this the wicked Duryodhana proposed to his father the Maharaja, that they should have a great gambling match at Hastinapur, and that Yudhishthira and his brethren should be invited to the festival. And the Maharaja was glad in his heart that his sons should be friendly with the sons of his deceased brother, Pandu; and he sent his younger brother, Vidura, to the city of Indra-prastha to invite the Pandavas to the game. And Vidura went his way to the city of the Pandavas, and was received by them with every sign of attention and respect. And Yudhishthira inquired whether his kinsfolk and friends at Hastinapur were all well in health, and Vidura replied, “They are all well.&” Then Vidura said to the Pandavas: — “Your uncle, the Maharaja, is about to give a great feast, and he has sent me to invite you and your mother, and your joint wife, to come to his city, and there will be a great match at dice-playing.&” When Yudhishthira heard these words he

was troubled in mind, for he knew that gaming was a frequent cause of strife, and that he was in no way skilful in throwing the dice; and he likewise knew that Sakuni was dwelling at Hastinapur, and that he was a famous gambler. But Yudhishthira remembered that the invitation of the Maharaja was equal to the command of a father, and that no true Kshatriya could refuse a challenge either to war or play. So Yudhishthira accepted the invitation, and gave commandment that on the appointed day his brethren, and their mother, and their joint wife should accompany him to the city of Hastinapur.

`When the day arrived for the departure of the Pandavas they took their mother Kunti, and their joint wife Draupadi, and journeyed from Indra-prastha to the city of Hastinapur. And when they entered the city they first paid a visit of respect to the Maharaja, and they found him sitting amongst his Chieftains; and the ancient Bhishma, and the preceptor Drona, and Karna, who was the friend of Duryodhana, and many others, were sitting there also.

`And when the Pandavas had done reverence to the Maharaja, and respectfully saluted all present,

they paid a visit to their aunt Gandhari, and did her reverence likewise.

`And after they had done this, their mother and joint wife entered the presence of Gandhari, and respectfully saluted her; and the wives of the Kauravas came in and were made known to Kunti and Draupadi. And the wives of the Kauravas were much surprised when they beheld the beauty and fine raiment of Draupadi; and they were very jealous of their kinswoman. And when all their visits had been paid, the Pandavas retired with their wife and mother to the quarters which had been prepared for them, and when it was evening they received the visits of all their friends who were dwelling at Hastinapur.

`Now, on the morrow the gambling match was to be played; so when the morning had come, the Pandavas bathed and dressed, and left Draupadi in the lodging which had been prepared for her, and went their way to the palace. And the Pandavas again paid their respects to their uncle the Maharaja, and were then conducted to the pavilion where the play was to be; and Duryodhana went with them, together with all his brethren, and all the chieftains of the royal house. And when the as

sembly had all taken their seats, Sakuni said to Yudhishthira: — “The ground here has all been prepared, and the dice are all ready: Come now, I pray you, and play a game.&” But Yudhishthira was disinclined, and replied: — “I will not play ex-cepting upon fair terms; but if you will pledge yourself to throw without artifice or deceit, I will accept your challenge.&” Sakuni said, — “If you are so fearful of losing, you had better not play at all.&” At these words Yudhishthira was wroth, and replied: — “I have no fear either in play or war; but let me know with whom I am to play, and who is to pay me if I win.&” So Duryodhana came forward and said: — “I am the man with whom you are to play, and I shall lay any stakes against your stakes; but my uncle Sakuni will throw the dice for me.&” Then Yudhishthira said, — “What manner of game is this, where one man throws and another lays the stakes?&” Nevertheless he accepted the challenge, and he and Sakuni began to play.

`At this point in the narrative it may be desirable to pause, and endeavour to obtain a picture of the scene. The so-called pavilion was probably a temporary booth constructed of bamboos and interlaced with basket-work; and very likely it was

decorated with flowers and leaves after the Hindoo fashion, and hung with fruits, such as cocoa-nuts, mangoes, plantains, and maize. The Chieftains present seem to have sat upon the ground, and watched the game. The stakes may have been pieces of gold or silver, or cattle, or lands; although, according to the legendary account which follows, they included articles of a far more extravagant and imaginative character. With these passing remarks, the tradition of the memorable game may be resumed as follows: —

`So Yudhishthira and Sakuni sat down to play, and whatever Yudhishthira laid as stakes, Duryodhana laid something of equal value; but Yudhishthira lost every game. He first lost a very beautiful pearl; next a thousand bags, each containing a thousand pieces of gold; next a piece of gold so pure that it was as soft as wax; next a chariot set with jewels and hung all round with golden bells; next a thousand war elephants with golden howdahs set with diamonds; next a lakh of slaves all dressed in good garments; next a lakh of beautiful slave girls, adorned from head to foot with golden ornaments; next all the remainder of his goods; next all his cattle; and

then the whole of his Raj, excepting only the lands which had been granted to the Brahmans.[17]

`Now when Yudhishthira had lost his Raj, the Chieftains present in the pavilion were of opinion that he should cease to play, but he would not listen to their words, but persisted in the game. And he staked all the jewels belonging to his brothers, and he lost them; and he staked his two younger brothers, one after the other, and he lost them; and he then staked Arjuna, and Bhima, and finally himself; and he lost every game. Then Sakuni said to him: — “You have done a bad act, Yudhishthira, in gaming away yourself and becoming a slave. But now, stake your wife, Draupadi, and if you win the game you will again be free.&” And Yudhishthira answered and said: — “I will

stake Draupadi!&” And all assembled were greatly troubled and thought evil of Yudhishthira; and his uncle Vidura put his hand to his head and fainted away, whilst Bhishma and Drona turned deadly pale, and many of the company were very sorrowful; but Duryodhana and his brother Duhsasana, and some others of the Kauravas, were glad in their hearts, and plainly manifested their joy. Then Sakuni threw the dice, and won Draupadi for Duryodhana.

`Then all in that assembly were in great consternation, and the Chieftains gazed upon one another without speaking a word. And Duryodhana said to his uncle Vidura: — “Go now and bring Draupadi hither, and bid her sweep the rooms.&” But Vidura cried out against him with a loud voice, and said: — “What wickedness is this? Will you order a woman who is of noble birth, and the wife of your own kinsman, to become a household slave? How can you vex your brethren thus? But Draupadi has not become your slave; for Yudhishthira lost himself before he staked his wife, and having first become a slave, he could no longer have power to stake Draupadi.&” Vidura then turned to the assembly and said: — “Take no heed to the words of

Duryodhana, for he has lost his senses this day.&” Duryodhana then said: — “A curse be upon this Vidura, who will do nothing that I desire him.&”

`After this Duryodhana called one of his servants, and desired him to go to the lodgings of the Pandavas, and bring Draupadi into the pavilion. And the man departed out, and went to the lodgings of the Pandavas, and entered the presence of Draupadi, and said to her: — “Raja Yudhishthira has played you away, and you have become the slave of Raja Duryodhana: So come now and do your duty like his other slave girls.&” And Draupadi was astonished at these words, and exceedingly wroth, and she replied: — “Whose slave was I that I could be gambled away? And who is such a senseless fool as to gamble away his own wife?&” The servant said: — “Raja Yudhishthira has lost himself, and his four brothers, and you also, to Raja Duryodhana, and you cannot make any objection: Arise, therefore, and go to the house of the Raja!&”

`Then Draupadi cried out: — “Go you now and inquire whether Raja Yudhishthira lost me first or himself first; for if he played away himself first, he could not stake me.&” So the man returned to

the assembly, and put the question to Yudhishthira; but Yudhishthira hung down his head with shame, and answered not a word.

`Then Duryodhana was filled with wrath, and he cried out to his servant: — “What waste of words is this? Go you and bring Draupadi hither, that if she has aught to say, she may say it in the presence of us all.&” And the man essayed to go, but he beheld the wrathful countenance of Bhima and he was sore afraid, and he refused to go, and remained where he was. Then Duryodhana sent his brother Duhsasana; and Duhsasana went his way to the lodgings of Draupadi and said: — “Raja Yudhishthira has lost you in play to Raja Duryodhana, and he has sent for you: So arise now, and wait upon him according to his commands; and if you have anything to say, you can say it in the presence of the assembly.&” Draupadi replied: — “The death of the Kauravas is not far distant, since they can do such deeds as these.&” And she rose up in great trepidation and set out, but when she came near to the palace of the Maharaja, she turned aside from the pavilion where the Chieftains were assembled, and ran away with all speed towards the apartments of the women. And Duhsasana hast

ened after her, and seized her by her hair, which was very dark and long, and dragged her by main force into the pavilion before all the Chieftains.

`And she cried out: — “Take your hands from of me!&” But Duhsasana heeded not her words, and said: — “You are now a slave girl, and slave girls cannot complain of being touched by the hands of men.&”

`When the Chieftains thus beheld Draupadi, they hung down their heads from shame; and Draupadi called upon the elders amongst them, such as Bhishma and Drona, to acquaint her whether or no Raja Yudhishthira had gamed away himself before he had staked her; but they likewise held down their heads and answered not a word.

`Then she cast her eye upon the Pandavas, and her glance was like the stabbing of a thousand daggers, but they moved not hand or foot to help her; for when Bhima would have stepped forward to deliver her from the hands of Duhsasana, Yudhishthira commanded him to forbear, and both he and the younger Pandavas were obliged to obey the command of their elder brother.

`And when Duhsasana saw that Draupadi looked

towards the Pandavas, he took her by the hand, and drew her another way, saying: — “Why, O slave, are you turning your eyes about you?&” And when Karna and Sakuni heard Duhsasana calling her a slave, they cried out: — “Well said! well said!&”

`Then Draupadi wept very bitterly, and appealed to all the assembly, saying: — “All of you have wives and children of your own, and will you permit me to be treated thus? I ask you one question, and I pray you to answer it.' Duhsasana then broke in and spoke foul language to her, and used her rudely, so that her veil came off in his hands. And Bhima could restrain his wrath no longer, and spoke vehemently to Yudhishthira; and Arjuna reproved him for his anger against hiss elder brother, but Bhima answered: — “I will thrust my hands into the fire before these wretches shall treat my wife in this manner before my eyes.&”

`Then Duryodhana said to Draupadi: — “Come now, I pray you, and sit upon my thigh!&” And Bhima gnashed his teeth, and cried out with a loud voice: — “Hear my vow this day! If for this deed I do not break the thigh of Duryodhana, and drink the blood of Duhsasana, I am not the son of Kunti!&”

`Meanwhile the Chieftain Vidura had left the assembly, and told the blind Maharaja Dhritarashtra all that had taken place that day; and the Maharaja ordered his servants to lead him into the pavilion where all the Chieftains were gathered together. And all present were silent when they saw the Maharaja, and the Maharaja said to Draupadi: — “O daughter, my sons have done evil to you this day: But go now, you and your husbands, to your own Raj, and remember not what has occurred, and let the memory of this day be blotted out for ever.&” So the Pandavas made haste with their wife Draupadi, and departed out of the city of Hastinapur.

`Then Duryodhana was exceedingly wroth, and he said to his father, “O Maharaja, is it not a saying that when your enemy hath fallen down, he should be annihilated without a war? And now that we had thrown the Pandavas to the earth, and had taken possession of all their wealth, you have restored them all their strength, and permitted them to depart with anger in their hearts; and now they will prepare to make war that they may revenge themselves upon us for all that has been done, and they will return within a short while and slay us

all: Give us leave then, I pray you, to play another game with these Pandavas, and let the side which loses go into exile for twelve years; for thus and thus only can a war be prevented between ourselves and the Pandavas.&” And the Maharaja granted the request of his son, and messengers were sent to bring back the brethren; and the Pandavas obeyed the commands of their uncle, and returned to his presence; and it was agreed upon that Yudhishthira should play one game more with Sakuni, and that if Yudhishthira won the Kauravas were to go into exile, and that if Sakuni won, the Pandavas were to go into exile; and the exile was to be for twelve years, and one year more; and during that thirteenth year those who were in exile were to dwell in any city they pleased, but to keep themselves so concealed that the others should never discover them; and if the others did discover them before the thirteenth year was over, then those who were in exile were to continue so for another thirteen years. So they sat down again to play, and Sakuni had a set of cheating dice as before, and with them he won the game.

`When Duhsasana saw that Sakuni had won the

game, he danced about for joy; and he cried out: — “Now is established the Raj of Duryodhana.&” But Bhima said, “Be not elated with joy, but remember my words: The day will come when I will drink your blood, or I am not the son of Kunti.&” And the Pandavas, seeing that they had lost, threw off their garments and put on deer-skins, and prepared to depart into the forest with their wife and mother, and their priest Dhaumya; but Vidura said to Yudhishthira: — “Your mother is old and unfitted to travel, so leave her under my care;&” and the Pandavas did so. And the brethren went out from the assembly hanging down their heads with shame, and covering their faces with their garments; but Bhima threw out his long arms and looked at the Kauravas furiously, and Draupadi spread her long black hair over her face and wept bitterly. And Draupadi vowed a vow, saying: —

` “My hair shall remain dishevelled from this day, until Bhima shall have slain Duhsasana and drank his blood; and then he shall tie up my hair again whilst his hands are dripping with the blood of Duhsasana.&” '

Such was the great gambling match at Hastinapur in the heroic age of India. It appears

there can be little doubt of the truth of the incident, although the verisimilitude would have been more complete without the perpetual winning of the cheat Sakuni — which would be calculated to arouse the suspicion of Yudhishthira, and which could scarcely be indulged in by a professional cheat, mindful of the suspicion it would excite.

Throughout the narrative, however, there is a truthfulness to human nature, and a truthfulness to that particular phase of human nature which is pre-eminently manifested by a high-minded race in its primitive stage of civilization.

To our modern minds the main interest of the story begins from the moment that Draupadi was lost; but it must be remembered that among that ancient people, where women were chiefly prized on sensual grounds, such stakes were evidently recognized.

The conduct of Draupadi herself on the occasion shows that she was by no means unfamiliar with the idea: she protested — not on the ground of sentiment or matrimonial obligation — but solely on what may be called a technical point of law, namely, `Had Yudhishthira become a slave before he staked his wife upon the last game?' For, of

course, having ceased to be a freeman, he had no right to stake her liberty.

The concluding scene of the drama forms an impressive figure in the mind of the Hindoo. The terrible figure of Draupadi, as she dishevels her long black hair, is the very impersonation of revenge; and a Hindoo audience never fails to shudder at her fearful vow — that the straggling tresses shall never again be tied up until the day when Bhima shall have fulfilled his vow, and shall then bind them up whilst his fingers are still dripping with the blood of Duhsasana.

The avenging battle subsequently ensued. Bhima struck down Duhsasana with a terrible blow of his mace, saying, — `This day I fulfil my vow against the man who insulted Draupadi!' Then setting his foot on the breast of Duhsasana, he drew his sword, and cut off the head of his enemy; and holding his two hands to catch the blood, he drank it off, crying out, `Ho! ho! Never did I taste anything in this world so sweet as this blood.'

This staking of wives by gamblers is a curious subject. The practice may be said to have been universal, having furnished cases among civilized as well as barbarous nations. Of course the Negroes

of Africa stake their wives and children; according to Schouten, a Chinese staked his wife and childen {sic}, and lost them; Paschasius Justus states that a Venetian staked his wife; and not a hundred years ago certain debauchees at Paris played at dice for the possession of a celebrated courtesan. But this is an old thing. Hegesilochus, and other rulers of Rhodes, were accustomed to play at dice for the honour of the most distinguished ladies of that island — the agreement being that the party who lost had to bring to the arms of the winner the lady designated by lot to that indignity.[18]

There are traditions of such stakes having been laid and lost by husbands in England; and a remarkable case of the kind will be found related in Ainsworth's `Old Saint Paul's,' as having occurred during the Plague of London, in the year 1665. There can be little doubt that it is founded on fact; and the conduct of the English wife, curiously enough, bears a striking resemblance to that of Draupadi in the Indian narrative.

A Captain Disbrowe of the king's body-guard lost a large sum of money to a notorious debauchee, a gambler and bully, named Sir Paul Parravicin.

The latter had made an offensive allusion to the wife of Captain Disbrowe, after winning his money; and then, picking up the dice-box, and spreading a large heap of gold on the table, he said to the officer who anxiously watched his movements: — `I mentioned your wife, Captain Disbrowe, not with any intention of giving you offence, but to show you that, although you have lost your money, you have still a valuable stake left.'

`I do not understand you, Sir Paul,' returned Disbrowe, with a look of indignant surprise.

`To be plain, then,' replied Parravicin, `I have won from you two hundred pounds — all you possess. You are a ruined man, and as such, will run any hazard to retrieve your losses. I give you a last chance. I will stake all my winnings — nay, double the amount — against your wife. You have a key of the house you inhabit, by which you admit yourself at all hours; so at least I am informed. If I win, that key shall be mine. I will take my chance of the rest. Do you understand me now?'

`I do,' replied the young man, with concentrated fury. `I understand that you are a villain. You have robbed me of my money, and would rob me of my honour.'

`These are harsh words, sir,' replied the knight calmly; `but let them pass. We will play first, and fight afterwards. But you refuse my challenge?'

`It is false!' replied Disbrowe, fiercely, `I accept it.' And producing a key, he threw it on the table. `My life is, in truth, set on the die,' he added, with a desperate look; `for if I lose, I will not survive my shame.'

`You will not forget our terms,' observed Parravicin. `I am to be your representative to-night. You can return home to-morrow.'

`Throw, sir, — throw,' cried the young man, fiercely.

`Pardon me,' replied the knight; `the first cast is with you. A single main decides it.'

`Be it so,' returned Disbrowe, seizing the bow. And as he shook the dice with a frenzied air, the bystanders drew near the table to watch the result.

`Twelve!' cried Disbrowe, as he removed the box. `My honour is saved! My fortune retrieved — Huzza!'

`Not so fast,' returned Parravicin, shaking the box in his turn. `You were a little hasty,' he

added, uncovering the dice. `I am twelve too. We must throw again.'

`This is to decide,' cried the young officer, rattling the dice, — `Six!'

Parravicin smiled, took the box, and threw *ten.

`Perdition!' ejaculated Disbrowe, striking his brow with his clenched hand. `What devil tempted me to my undoing? . . . My wife trusted to this profligate! . . . Horror! It must not be!'

`It is too late to retract,' replied Parravicin, taking up the key, and turning with a triumphant look to his friends.

Disbrowe noticed the smile, and, stung beyond endurance, drew his sword, and called to the knight to defend himself. In an instant passes were exchanged. But the conflict was brief. Fortune, as before, declared herself in favour of Parravicin. He disarmed his assailant, who rushed out of the room, uttering the wildest ejaculations of rage and despair.

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The winner of the key proceeded at once to use. He gained admittance to the captain's house, and found his way to the chamber of his wife, who was then in bed. At first mistaken for her husband

Parravicin heard words of tender reproach for his lateness; and then, declaring himself, he belied her husband, stating that he was false to her, and had surrendered her to him. At this announcement Mrs Disbrowe uttered a loud scream, and fell back in the bed. Parravicin waited for a moment; but not hearing her move, brought the lamp to see what was the matter. She had fainted, and was lying across the pillow, with her night-dress partly open, so as to expose her neck and shoulders. The knight was at first ravished with her beauty; but his countenance suddenly fell, and an expression of horror and alarm took possession of it. He appeared rooted to the spot, and instead of attempting to render her any assistance, remained with his gaze fixed upon her neck. Rousing himself at length, he rushed out of the room, hurried down-stairs, and without pausing for a moment, threw open the street door. As he issued from it his throat was forcibly griped, and the point of a sword was placed at his breast.

It was the desperate husband, who was waiting to avenge his wife's honour.

`You are in my power, villain,' cried Disbrowe, `and shall not escape my vengeance.'

`You are already avenged,' replied Parravicin, shaking off his assailant — `*Your wife has the plague.'

The profligate had been scared away by the sight of the `plague spot' on the neck of the unfortunate lady.

The husband entered and found his way to his wife's chamber. Instantaneous explanations ensued. `He told me you were false — that you loved another — and had abandoned me,' exclaimed the frantic wife.

`He lied!' shouted Disbrowe, in a voice of uncontrollable fury. `It is true that, in a moment of frenzy, I was tempted to set you — yes, *you, Margaret — against all I had lost at play, and was compelled to yield up the key of my house to the winner. But I have never been faithless to you — never.'

`Faithless or not,' replied his wife bitterly, `it is plain you value me less than play, or you would not have acted thus.'

`Reproach me not, Margaret,' replied Disbrowe. `I would give worlds to undo what I have done.'

`Who shall guard me against the recurrence of such conduct?' said Mrs Disbrowe, coldly. `But you have not yet informed me how I was saved!'

Disbrowe averted his head.

`What mean you?' she cried, seizing his arm. `What has happened? Do not keep me in suspense? Were you my preserver?'

`Your preserver was the plague,' rejoined Disbrowe, mournfully.

The unfortunate lady then, for the first time, perceived that she was attacked by the pestilence, and a long and dreadful pause ensued, broken only by exclamations of anguish from both.

`Disbrowe!' cried Margaret at length, raising herself in bed, `you have deeply, irrecoverably injured me. But promise me one thing.'

`I swear to do whatever you may desire,' he replied.

`I know not, after what I have heard, whether you have courage for the deed,' she continued. `But I would have you kill this man.'

`I will do it,' replied Disbrowe.

`Nothing but his blood can wipe out the wrong he has done me,' she rejoined. `Challenge him to a duel — a mortal duel. If he survives, by my soul, I will give myself to him.'

`Margaret!' exclaimed Disbrowe.

`I swear it,' she rejoined,' and you know my

passionate nature too well to doubt I will keep my word.'

`But you have the plague!'

`What does that matter? I may recover.'

`Not so,' muttered Disbrowe. `If I fall, I will take care you do not recover. . . . I will fight him to-morrow,' he added aloud.

About noon on the following day Disbrowe proceeded to the Smyrna Coffee-house, where, as he expected, he found Parravicin and his companions. The knight instantly advanced towards him, and laying aside for the moment his reckless air, inquired, with a look of commiseration, after his wife.

`She is better,' replied Disbrowe, fiercely. `I am come to settle accounts with you.'

`I thought they were settled long ago,' returned Parravicin, instantly resuming his wonted manner. `But I am glad to find you consider the debt unpaid.'

Disbrowe lifted the cane he held in his hand, and struck the knight with it forcibly on the shoulder. `Be that my answer,' he said.

`I will have your life first, and your wife afterwards,' replied Parravicin fiercely.

`You shall have her if you slay me, but not

otherwise,' retorted Disbrowe. `It must be a mortal duel.'

`It must,' replied Parravicin. `I will not spare you this time. I shall instantly proceed to the west side of Hyde Park, beneath the trees. I shall expect you there. On my return I shall call on your wife.'

`I pray you do so, sir,' replied Disbrowe, disdainfully.

Both then quitted the Coffee-house, Parravicin attended by his companions, and Disbrowe accompanied by a military friend, whom he accidentally encountered. Each party taking a coach, they soon reached the ground, a retired spot completely screened from observation by trees. The preliminaries were soon arranged, for neither would admit of delay. The conflict then commenced with great fury on both sides; but Parravicin, in spite of his passion, observed far more caution than his antagonist; and taking advantage of an unguarded movement, occasioned by the other's impetuosity, passed his sword through his body. Disbrowe fell.

`You are again successful,' he groaned, `but save my wife — save her!'

`What mean you?' cried Parravicin, leaning over him, as he wiped his sword.

But Disbrowe could make no answer. His utterance was choked by a sudden effusion of blood on the lungs, and he instantly expired.

Leaving the body in care of the second, Parravicin and his friends returned to the coach, his friends congratulating him on the issue of the conflict; but the knight looked grave, and pondered upon the words of the dying man. After a time, however, he recovered his spirits, and dined with his friends at the Smyrna; but they observed that he drank more deeply than usual. His excesses did not, however, prevent him from playing with his usual skill, and he won a large sum from one of his companions at Hazard.

Flushed with success, and heated with wine, he walked up to Disbrowe's residence about an hour after midnight. As he approached the house, he observed a strangely-shaped cart at the door, and, halting for a moment, saw a body, wrapped in a shroud, brought out. Could it be Mrs Disbrowe? Rushing forward to one of the assistants in black cloaks, he asked whom he was about to inter.

`It is a Mrs Disbrowe,' replied the coffinmaker.

`She died of grief, because her husband was killed this morning in a duel; but as she had the plague, it must be put down to that. We are not particular in such matters, and shall bury her and her husband together; and as there is no money left to pay for coffins, they must go to the grave without them.'

And as the body of his victim also was brought forth, Parravicin fell against the wall in a state of stupefaction. At this moment, Solomon Eagle, the weird plague-prophet, with his burning brazier on his head, suddenly turned the corner of the street, and, stationing himself before the dead-cart, cried in a voice of thunder — `Woe to the libertine! Woe to the homicide! for he shall perish in everlasting fire! Woe! woe!'

Such is this English legend, as related by Ainsworth, but which I have condensed into its main elements. I think it bids fair to equal in interest that of the Hindoo epic; and if it be not true in every particular, so much the better for the sake of human nature.