The reader's hair stands almost on end in horror at the wickedness of the two wretches,--at her desire for money, sheer money; and his for wickedness, sheer wickedness.

Then her husband finds her out,--poor Rawdon! who with all his faults and thickheaded stupidity, has become absolutely entranced by the wiles of his little wife.

He is carried off to a sponging-house, in order that he may be out of the way, and, on escaping unexpectedly from thraldom, finds the lord in his wife's drawing-room.

Whereupon he thrashes the old lord, nearly killing him; takes away the plunder which he finds on his wife's person, and hurries away to seek assistance as to further revenge;--for he is determined to shoot the marquis, or to be shot.

He goes to one Captain Macmurdo, who is to act as his second, and there he pours out his heart.
"You don't know how fond I was of that one," Rawdon said, half-inarticulately.