“Indeed! I should n't have thought—”
“No matter, do as I tell you; he stabbed a travelling artist the other day, who fancied he was a fine study, and wished to make a drawing of his head.”
Simms's jaw dropped suddenly, and a sickly faintness stole over him, that even all his late potations could not supply courage enough to hear such a story unmoved.
“And who is he, sir, yonder?” asked he, as a youth, with no other clothing than a shirt and trousers, was fencing against a tree, practising, by bounds and springs, every imaginable species of attack and assault.
“A young Spaniard from the Basque,” said Cashel, coolly; “he has a duel to-morrow with some fellow in Barcelonetta, and he 's getting his wrist into play.” Then calling out, he said, “Ah, José, you mean to let blood, I see!”
“He's only a student,” said the youth, with an insolent toss of his head. “But who have we here?”
“A friend and countryman of mine, Mr. Simms,” said Cashel, introducing the little man, who performed a whole circuit round the young Spaniard in salutations.
“Come to join us?” asked the youth, surveying him with cool impertinence. “What in the devil's name hast thou done that thou shouldst leave the Old World at thy time of life? Virtuous living or hypocrisy ought to have become a habit with thee ere now, old boy, eh?”
“He's only on a visit,” said Cashel, laughing; “he can return to good society, not like all of us here.”
“Would you infer from that, sir—”