"But how said ye," inquired the Temple lawyer, "that you became opposed to this Arderne? Methinks, when I last consulted you, you were employed and trusted by him."
"At first, only at first," said Grasp. "In virtue of my having informed him of his good fortune he did employ me,—entrusted me with management of his estates, and I did but eject—"
"Cheatery, villany!" cried the dicer. "I'll not restore a dernier."
"Pshaw," said Grasp, "I did but eject one or two of the poorer tenants, and put relatives of mine own into their holdings, when he ejected both them and myself. This, my good sir, I liked not, and, as upon careful examination I found one I thought more nearly related to the deceased, and the will distinctly says next of kin. I forthwith sought out my client; there now is our case."
"The case is a good case, an exceeding good case, and so I said from the first," said the Templar. "You have this Arderne fairly upon the hip, an he pay not he must to jail, unless you give him time."
"Not a day, not an hour," said Grasp; "we got a verdict in a former suit, and he shall incontinent to prison."
"Such is the law of a verity," said the Templar, emptying his glass, filling his pipe, and turning now to regard the guests at the ordinary, as they seemed getting up a dispute upon the subject of the play they had witnessed.
"I perfectly agree with you," said a person who sat opposite to the tall Alsatian, "in so far as regards the excellence of the play we have this night seen. But in respect of its newness to the world there I disagree."
"How?" cried the other fiercely, "dost mean to affirm that such exquisite portraits as that lady who loved the youth Romeo, that brilliant Mercutio, and that hot-brained Tybalt were ever drawn by mortal man before? Didst ever behold any thing so like reality as that loquacious, secret, obsequious nurse, or the little Peter who carried her fan? Didst ever—"
"Pshaw," said the other, "I quarrel not with your nurse, neither do I take exception at Peter,—what I say I will maintain with my rapier here or elsewhere. And thus it is: the subject-matter of that play is not new to the world. 'Tis manifestly constructed upon the novel of Italy, written by Luigi da Porto, a Venetian gentleman now deceased—gainsay that who will." And the student rose, drew up his tall form, twisted his mustachio, and looked fiercely around.