"There is naught to resent, Cousin, in what I say, nor is it the act or speech of a madman to ask you to rescind a bargain which tended neither to your honour nor to mine own."
"But, by the Mass, Cousin, the bargain good or bad, righteous or shameful, is no longer in the making. Even were I so minded—which by our Lady I vow that I am not—I could not now release you of your pledged word to me. What is done, is done, and you have fulfilled your share of the bargain. Now 'tis my turn as an honourable gentlemen to acquit myself of my debt to you. So I pray you take the money—it is justly yours—but do not prate any further nonsense."
"Ay! ay! friend Kestyon," added Ayloffe with his habitual bonhomme, through which nevertheless the cloven hoof of sarcasm was quite perceptible, "do not allow your over-sensitive conscience to persuade you into refusing what is justly your due."
"Odd's fish, man, you have won the bride and thereby rendered Stowmaries an incomparable service," quoth Lord Rochester decisively, "and—"
He was about to say more but Michael interrupted him.
"I pray you, gentlemen," he said, "grant me patience for awhile; I fear me that my gentle cousin did not altogether grasp my meaning. Cousin," he added, turning once more fully to Stowmaries, "will you put your money back into your pocket and instead of fulfilling your engagements to me, fulfil them toward the lady who hath first claims on your loyalty?"
"Tush, man!" retorted Stowmaries, who was waxing wrathful, "cannot you cease that senseless talk? The thing is done, man, the thing is done. Gad! We none of us want it undone, nor could we an we would."
"My lord of Stowmaries is right," concluded Lord Rochester decisively, "and you, Kestyon, do but run your head against a stone wall. An you feel remorse, I for one am sorry for you—but what has been, has been. You no more can withdraw from your present position than you could erase from the Book of Life all that has passed to-day. So take your money, man, you have the right to it. Odd's fish! A hundred and twenty thousand pounds, and you talk of flinging it as a sop to your perturbed conscience."
"Who talked of conscience, my lord?" rejoined Michael haughtily, "or yet of remorse? Surely not I. We have all been gambling on an issue, and I now offer my cousin of Stowmaries his own stakes back again an he'll pay his just debt to his wife rather than to me."
"My wife, man, are you joking!" retorted Stowmaries hotly. "After what has occurred, think you I would take for my countess—"