"Who is that?—who is it?" inquired he in the same tone, without turning his eyes from the volume which he read.
"Per dina!" exclaimed the Neapolitan—"Mees Emily—she is vary seldom come here. You are wailcome, Mees Emily; weel you seet down?—there is chair. Sir Richard, it is Mees Emily."
"What does the young lady want?" inquired he, drily.
"I have gotten a note for you, uncle," replied she.
"Well, put it down?—put it there on the table, anywhere; I presume it will keep till morning," replied he, without removing his eyes from the pages.
"It is from Lord Aspenly," urged the girl.
"Eh! Lord Aspenly. How—give it to me," said the baronet, raising himself quickly and tossing the pamphlet aside. He broke the seal and read the note. Whatever its contents were, they produced upon the baronet an extraordinary effect; he started from the sofa with clenched hands and frantic gesture.
"Who—where—stop him, after him—he shall answer me—he shall!" cried, or rather shrieked, the baronet in the hoarse, choking scream of fury. "After him all—my sword, my horse. By ——, he'll reckon with me this night."
Never did the human form more fearfully embody the passions of hell; he stood before them absolutely transformed. The quivering face was pale as ashes; the livid veins, like blue knotted cordage, protruded upon his forehead; the eye glared and rolled with the light of madness, and as he shook and raved there before them, no dream ever conjured up a spectacle more appalling; he spit upon the letter—he tore it into fragments, and with his gouty feet stamped it into the fire.
There was no extravagance of frenzy which he did not enact. He tossed his arms into the air, and dashed his clenched hands upon the table; he stamped, he stormed, he howled; and as with thick and furious utterance he volleyed forth his incoherent threats, mandates, and curses, the foam hung upon his blackened lips.