“We’ll be afther doin’ it here, yer honor,” said Denis gloomily, “from an impty stomach. Betwane th’ landlord an’ the ranting, tearing Whig gintry in th’ stable-yard, sir, I’m clane daft.”
“So they’re all for the king in possession, are they?” said Trevor, in an amused tone; “I hope you’ve heeded my instructions to keep your tongue quiet in your head and mind your own business.”
“Faix, me lord, I’ve bin afther minding mine, but they’re afther minding it too, th’ ill-favored thribe!”
“That is because you are an Irishman, Denis; they know that at once.”
“Indade, yer lordship’s mistaken intirely; they’ve no idee at all that I’m a Munster man,” said his servant, with an air of satisfaction, “divil a bit of it! Sometimes I’m a Frenchy an’ sometimes I’m a Dutchy—but an Irishman niver! Lady Clancarty’s woman—a sly divil with a pair of eyes that be winking etarnally—she’s bin swate to me. By the Virgin, sir, she’s bin afther thryin’ to sound me about yer lordship. She looks at me and purrs, for all th’ wurruld, loike a big white tabby, an’ says she, ‘You’re an Irishman, sir!’ ‘Divil a bit, me darlint,’ says I, ‘I’m a Dutchman, born at th’ Hague and me mither was forty-first cousin, wanst removed, to th’ king’s grandmither,’ says I. ‘Ye don’t tell me!’ says she, and her little pale eyes blinked loike a candle in th’ wind. ‘An’ what’ll be yer name, sir?’ she asks, as swate as honey. ‘Mynheer Tulipius,’ says I, for I couldn’t think of anither name for th’ life of me. ‘La, sir,’ says she with a simper, ‘you look loike a tulip, to be shure.’ ‘So I do, me darlint,’ I replied, and I thried to make up me mind to kiss her, but, bedad, sir, I couldn’t do it; there’s something about her that sinds the cowld creeps up me spine.”
“You’re a great coward, Denis,” said his master smiling, “afraid of a woman! It’s a new fault in you, and one that I did not expect. As for this creature, what were her questions about me?”
“‘Yer master’s an Irishman, Mynheer Tulipius,’ says she, ‘that we all know fer a fact.’ ‘Is he, indade?’ says I, with the greatest amazement; ‘’tis the first time I iver heard it,’ says I; ‘he was born in London and his fayther was one of Gineral Cromwell’s Ironsides.’ ‘Ye don’t say so,’ says she, ‘how iver did he get on so well at Saint Germain thin?’ and she blinked a hundred times in a second. ‘Saint Germain!’ says I, opening my eyes wide; ‘indade, they were so cowld to him there that he was afther laving before he got there,’ says I, ‘it’s quite well known,’ I wint on, as slick as silk, ‘that whin the man Jimmy Stuart, rayalized that my masther was in France he put on a shirt of mail an’ niver took it off at all, even av he was aslape in his ruffled silk night-rail, for fear he’d be kilt on th’ field of honor.’ ‘Is that so?’ says she; ‘an’ thin p’r’aps ye’ve met me Lord Clancarty out there?’ ‘Clancarty?’ says I, squinting hard with wan eye, ‘there was a gintleman of that same name hung jist as I was afther laving Holland—mebbe he’s yer friend?’ By Saint Patrick, me lord, you ought to have sane her stare! She sthopped winking thin, an’ looked loike a cat that’s sane a bird; on me sowl, sir, I looked to see av there wasn’t a furry tail swinging behind, to wurk th’ charm on me. ‘Clancarty hung?’ says she, clapping her hand to her heart, ‘what for?’ ‘Faix, I don’t know, me darlint,’ says I, ‘unless it was for being too much of a Whig.’ ‘Pshaw!’ cries she, stamping her foot, ‘ye’re a paddy fool!’ ‘Niver a bit,’ says I, ‘I’m a Dutch wizard, me darlint; just let me be afther telling yer fortune.’ But away she wint in a towering rage, an’ left me with me heart broken intirely at the siparation.”
“I fear you did not deceive her,” said Clancarty, with a laugh, and he unsheathed his sword, running his finger along the blade. “My old friend needs polishing, Denis,” he added, with his careless air of good humor, “I’ve a duel on my hands for the morning.”
The Irishman’s face sobered in an instant, and he cast a look of concern at his master.
“I’m sorra for it, me lord,” he said, with an honest ring in his voice, “ye’ve no friends here.”