“See the fount of generous juice! Flow on, fair stream. How he bleeds!—pints, quarts! Ah, this proves him to be in earnest!”
“A true lover's blood is always at his fingers' ends.”
“He does not grudge it; of course not. Eh, Jack? What matters an odd gallon for her sake?”
“For her sake? Nothing, nothing! Take my life, if you will: but—oh, gentlemen, a surgeon, if you love me! I'm going off—I 'm fainting!”
“Drink, then, quick; drink and swear! Pat his back, Cary. Courage, man! it will be over in a minute. Now, Frank!—”
And Frank spoke—
“If plighted troth I fail, or secret speech reveal, May Cocytean ghosts around my pillow squeal; While Ate's brazen claws distringe my spleen in sunder, And drag me deep to Pluto's keep, 'mid brimstone, smoke, and thunder!”
“Placetne, domine?”
“Placet!” squeaked Jack, who thought himself at the last gasp, and gulped down full three-quarters of the goblet which Cary held to his lips.
“Ugh—Ah—Puh! Mercy on us! It tastes mighty like wine!”