The smith shrunk for a moment before the pale face of Learmont, in which was an expression of concentrated rage and hate that might well have appalled even a far bolder man.
Britton, however, was not in a state to admit of any moral control; drink was inflaming his brain, and there was a recklessness about him that, if not carefully treated, might involve both Learmont and himself in one common destruction.
The haughty squire felt fully the precarious situation in which he stood, and therefore was it that in the midst of a wild passion that made him tremble, he felt obliged to temporise with the man whose life’s blood flowing at his feet would scarcely have satisfied his feelings of awful hatred.
“Andrew Britton,” he said, in a half-choked voice, which he wished no one to hear but the smith.
“Well, Squire Learmont,” replied the ruffian, endeavouring to stand steadily the fixed gaze of the other.
“For your own life’s sake go away from here—you are drunk, and know not what you do.”
“Drunk, am I? Well, there’s many a better man been drunk before to-day!”
“What do you want?”
“Ten—ten—guineas and—a (hiccup) dance; I tell you what it is—it’s infernally unfriendly of you not to invite me. You know I’m a gentleman now. Never—never—never—to show me—your nobles—curse me if I—stand it. In—introduce me to the rest of the gentlefolks, can’t you, and be d—d to you. I—I ain’t such a sneak as that cursed Jacob Gray. No—no, I’m a gentleman every—every inch a gentleman. Hurrah! Hurrah!”
“Are you mad?” said Learmont.