66 Ay, but it was man to man, a fair fight,” returned Claude. "Nonsense, man, the wine darkens your better judgment," said Blood, sheathing his sword. "And so my quarrel was with the wine, and not with Claude Duval. Here is my hand, sir, and reserve your cold iron for cold hearts." The persuasions of the company induced Claude, with much reluctance, to accept the offered hand, which was remarkable for huge size and the deformity of its thumb. All then resumed their seats, and the host suddenly made his appearance from under the table, where he had taken refuge. A fresh bowl of punch was ordered in, and Rowley laboured, not without success, to restore the joviality of the meeting. By degrees all recollection of the recent quarrel vanished in copious draughts of the nectar, and Mervyn saw with astonishment, that as they grew more and more intoxicated, the belligerents' rancour decreased, until at last they actually embraced each other, protesting they were the best friends in life. Accustomed to the sobriety and severe decency of manners enforced at St. Omer, almost every word he heard brought blushes to Mervyn's young cheek, and he sat gazing and listening like an innocent shepherd straying by chance on the orgies of satyrs. The free opinions delivered on all topics -women, religion, laws human and divine—made his ears tingle with shame; but there was something fatally captivating in the licentious vivacity of these gallants. Rowley seemed a man of great humour; there was a satirical depth in what he said, which showed a long acquaintance with mankind, and his two companions were evidently men of great parts and brilliant wit. But even these two were distinguished by deep shades of character. Wilmot's wit was bitter, misanthropical, tinged with gloom at times, at others libertine to excess; Villiers's was rather sparkling and ambitious than malignant, yet often extremely sarcastic, especially when rattling away at Wilmot, with whom he waged a continued skirmish of repartees. Mervyn thought he could discern that these companions were of higher rank than they pretended to be, and there was something of mastery assumed by Rowley, to which all the others seemed to yield. Still he was shocked with the irreligion and blasphemy which all seemed to take pride in displaying. But Rowley continued to drown his scruples in laughter and wine. In vain he resisted; he was jeered at as a milksop, and forced to swallow glass on glass, till excited by the liquor, and his own natural vivacity, he launched out in a style of daring which, from its freshness, seemed to delight those wild companions. CHAPTER XIX. A NIGHT IN ALSATIA. "THOU art a merry little dog, Ichabod, with thy Jewish name!" said Rowley, throwing himself "Methinks I shall love thee, back in his chair. and be of service to thee." "Canst thou eat mutton, child, then ?" said Wilmot, smiling. "If so, thy fortune is made." “Ay, that can I, but fat ven'son better,” replied Mervyn. "'Fore Heaven, Rowley, and is not this better than churning our brains to curds in the whirligig of state affairs?" said Villiers, blowing the froth from his punch into Rowley's plate. "Yea, this is the only life for men of sense— -an' it would last for ever," said Wilmot, with a sigh. "What sings old sage Anacreon? "Could gold prolong our life's brief span, One moment snatch from fate, I, too, would heap the glittering dross; That if Death chanced to journey nigh, But if one cannot purchase life, 'Mid genial friends, in purple wine!" "I have noted thee, Jack, these latter times," said Rowley, as Wilmot concluded his recitation. "And take my word for it, thou wilt not die in the jolly fellow's faith. Thou wilt repent and turn a whiner." "Of a surety and verily, for his spirit quaileth," said Villiers, with a sanctimonious twang. "Mind you not last summer when he had the fever, how he winced, and called in the harsh Scotch canter, Burnet, to pray by his bedside ?" |