“He’s mad. The boy’s stark raving mad!” exclaim’d my kinsman. “To come here in this trim!”
“Why, truly, nunky, thou art a strange one to talk of appearances. Oh, dear!” and I burst into a wild fit of laughing, for the wine had warm’d me up to play the comedy out. “To hear thee sing
“‘With a fa—la—tweedle—tweedle!’
and—Oh, nunky, that medlar on thy face is so funny!”
“In Heaven’s name, stop!” broke in the Prince Maurice. “Am I mad, or only drunk? Rupert, if you love me, say I am no worse than drunk.”
“Lord knows,” answer’d his brother. “I for one was never this way before.”
“Indeed, your Highnesses be only drunk,” said I, “and able at that to sign the order that I shall ask you for.”
“An order!”
“To pass the city gates to-night.”
“Oh, stop him somebody,” groan’d Prince Rupert: “my head is whirling.”