"And now," said Bottesham, "to return to this mad scheme of your master's—is there no way of preventing it?"
"I am aware of none," replied Blaize.
"Bolts and bars!" cried Furbisher, "something must be done for the fair Amabel. We owe it to society not to permit so lovely a creature to be thus immured. What say you, Hawkswood?" he added to the gallant by his side, who had not hitherto spoken.
"It would be unpardonable to permit it—quite unpardonable," replied this person.
"Might not some plan be devised to remove her for a short time, and frighten him out of his project?" said Bottesham. "I would willingly assist in such a scheme. I pledge you in a bumper, young man. You appear a trusty servant."
"I am so accounted, learned sir," replied Blaize, upon whose brain the wine thus plentifully bestowed began to operate—"and I may add, justly so."
"You really will be doing your master a service if you can prevent him from committing this folly," rejoined Bottesham.
"Let us have a bottle of burnt malmsey, with a few bruised raisins in it, Mr. Parkhurst. This poor young man requires support. Be seated, friend."
With some hesitation, Blaize complied, and while the apothecary went in search of the wine, he observed to Bottesham, "I would gladly comply with your suggestion, learned sir, if I saw any means of doing so."
"Could you not pretend to have the plague?" said Bottesham. "I could then attend you."