"Don't talk of the plague, I beseech you," replied Blaize, with a shudder. "It is a subject never mentioned here."
"I am sorry I alluded to it, then," rejoined Pillichody. "Give me back my sword. Nay, fear nothing. I entirely forgive you, and am willing to drown the remembrance of our quarrel in a bottle of sack."
Readily assenting to the proposition, Blaize obtained the key of the cellar from the butler, and adjourning thither with Pillichody, they seated themselves on a cask with a bottle of sack and a couple of large glasses on a stool between them.
"I suppose you know why I am come hither?" observed the major, smacking his lips after his second bumper.
"Not precisely," replied Blaize. "But I presume your visit has some reference to Mistress Amabel."
"A shrewd guess," rejoined Pillichody. "And this reminds me that we have omitted to drink her health."
"Her better health," returned Blaize, emptying his glass. "Heaven be praised! she has plucked up a little since we came here."
"She would soon be herself again if she were united to the Earl of Rochester," said Pillichody.
"There you are wrong," replied Blaize. "She declares she has no longer any regard for him."
"Mere caprice, believe me," rejoined Pillichody. "She loves him better than ever."