“Possibly,” said the doctor.
“Nay, positively,” rejoined the baronet: “far more ancient than the O’Neils, O’Briens, O’Flahertys, who indeed are comparatively moderns. We were native princes and kings several centuries before even the term Anno Domini was used.”
“I will not dispute it, sir.”
“Nay, I can prove it. I had six and twenty quarters on my shield without a blot upon either—save by one marriage with a d—d Bodkin out of the twelve tribes of Galway, about a hundred and eighty years ago. We never got over that!”
“For Heaven’s sake, sir,” said Doctor T——, “do come to the point.”
“Pardon me,” said Sir John, “I am on the point itself.”
“As how?” inquired the other.
“Come here,” said Sir John, “and I will soon satisfy you on that head:” and as he spoke he led him to the window, where three china cups full of the baronet’s gore lay in regular order. “See! that’s the genuine crimson stuff for you, doctor! eighteen ounces at least of it; the richest in Europe! and as to colour—what’s carmine to it?”
The doctor was bewildered; but so passive, he stood quite motionless.
“Now,” continued Sir John, “we are bringing the matter to the point. You can guarantee this gore to be genuine Glinsk blood: it gushed beautifully after your lancet, doctor, eh! didn’t it?”