“Very pretty indeed!”
“Beautiful! If the damsel be only as sweet as her name, then Scott is a fortunate fellow.”
“Oh, she is a very wonder of beauty; eyes liquid and full of fiery love—long lashes: lips luscious as honeycombs; figure tall; bust full and firm; limbs like those of the Cyprian goddess; feet like Cinderella’s—in short, perfection.”
“Wonderful. Why, Scott, you are the luckiest mortal alive. But say, Ringgold! are you speaking in seriousness. Has he really conquered this Indian divinity? Honour bright—has he succeeded? You understand what I mean?”
“Most certainly,” was the prompt reply.
Up to this moment I had not interfered. The first words of the conversation had bound me like a spell, and I stood as if glued to the ground. My brain was giddy, and my heart felt as if the blood passing through it was molten lead. The bold enunciations had so staggered me, that it was some time before I could draw my breath; and more than one of the bystanders noticed the effect which the dialogue was producing on me.
After a little, I grew calmer, or rather more resolute. The very despair that had passed into my bosom had the effect of steeling my nerves; and just as Ringgold uttered the flippant affirmative, I was ready for him.
“Liar!” I exclaimed; and before the red could mount into his cheek, I gave it a slap with the back of my hand, that no doubt helped to heighten the colour.
“Nately done!” cried Gallagher; “there can be no mistake about the maynin of that.”
Nor was there. My antagonist accepted the act for what it was meant—a deadly insult. In such company, he could not do otherwise; and, muttering some indistinct threats, he walked away from the ground, attended by his especial friend, the lady-killer, and two or three others.