'Yes, my lord,' cried Phil, as he rushed towards the door. 'This is too bad, Hinton: that confounded fellow could not possibly be moved. I'll try and carry him.' As he spoke, he hurried back towards the sleeping figure of Mr. Rooney, while I made towards the duke.
As Lord Dudley had gone to order up the carriages, his grace was standing alone at the foot of the stairs, leaning his back against the banisters, his eyes opening and shutting alternately as his head nodded every now and then forward, overcome by sleep and the wine he had drunk. Exactly in front of him, but crouching in the attitude of an Indian monster, sat Corny Delany. To keep himself from the cold, he had wrapped himself up in his master's cloak, and the only part of his face perceptible was the little wrinkled forehead, and the malicious-looking fiery eyes beneath it, firmly fixed on the duke's countenance.
'Give me your sword,' said his grace, turning to me, in a tone half sleeping, half commanding; 'give me your sword, sir!'
Drawing it from the scabbard, I presented it respectfully.
'Stand a little on one side, Hinton. Where is he? Ah! quite right. Kneel down, sir; kneel down, I say!' These words, addressed to Corny, produced no other movement in him than a slight change in his attitude, to enable him to extend his expanded hand above his eyes, and take a clearer view of the duke.
'Does he hear me, Hinton? Do you hear me, sir?'
'Do you hear his grace?' said I, endeavouring with a sharp kick of my foot to assist his perceptions.
'To be sure I hear him,' said Corny; 'why wouldn't I hear him?'
'Kneel down, then,' said I.
'Devil a bit of me'll kneel down. Don't I know what he's after well enough? Ach na bocklish! Sorrow else he ever does nor make fun of people.'