Then, all compunction for his deed,
For cap to the disaster,
Rubbed Phædon’s lips with honey-mead,
To serve the wound for plaster.”
“Is it pretty or not, monsieur?” asked Théroigne mockingly, advancing her foot and giving Ned a little peck in the back with it.
“It suits the occasion, mademoiselle, and, no doubt, the company.”
St Denys laughed out.
“Hear the grudging ascetic!” he cried. “It is martial music that shall fire this temperate blood! Ho, Boppard, mon petit chiffon! give him a taste of thy quality.”
“He will laugh at me, Basile.”
Nevertheless, the sizar got upon his legs. It brought him three feet nearer the stars. His voice was a protesting little organ; but the spirit that inspired it was many degrees above proof.