Then, taking out his lancet, he opened a vein in the right arm.
"You see now, I hope," said the leech, "that it is utterly useless; there is not a drop of blood."
"Then," said the landlady, "the Baron really is—dead?"
"Dead! Dead as mutton," replied the doctor.
At this juncture the face of the corpse grew violently convulsed, his eyes rolled, the colour returned suddenly to his cheeks, and leaping from the bed with terrific energy, he seized the bolster, with which he belaboured the terrified inmates of "The Swan" right and left, knocking over the little doctor, and sending me into the landlady's lap, and the "boots" flying out of the room with a yell of terror, besides upsetting every utensil of crockery that stood in the way.
"Dead, am I!" roared the Baron, "dead, eh! Where's that scurvy apothecary—that spreader of plaisters, that pill-maker, that cow-bleeder—that dared to open one of my veins?"
The little doctor had crept under the bed.
"And you, sir," cried he, turning upon me, "for advising him to try his filthy experiments upon me," and swinging round his bolster, sent me tottering against the wall.
"Dead as mutton, eh! By the blood of my ancestors, I never had such foul language used to me before. What! compare the aristocratic flesh of one descended from such a line of ancestors as mine to mutton! Ugh! Mutton, quotha? I'll mutton you," cried the Baron, aiming a blow at the little doctor's head, which he caught peeping from beneath the bed.
The doctor ducked in his head, and attempted a clandestine escape on his hands and knees by the door, but was immediately pulled back by the coat-tails by the Baron.