‘Ay, stretch forth your arm over the scyphus, young gentleman,’ cried Sir Norfolk, pointing to the bowl.
‘You must drink the toast—it’s the rule of the club,’ added Sir Bulkeley.
‘It is a rule I cannot subscribe to,’ replied Randulph.
‘How!—am I mistaken in you, young man?’ said Firebras, regarding him menacingly.
‘Do as they bid you, or you’ll have your throat cut, ‘pon rep!’ whispered Mr. Cripps, popping his head over Firebras’s shoulder.
‘Will you drink the toast, or not?’ demanded Firebras fiercely.
‘I will not!’ replied Randulph firmly. ‘It is treasonable, and I refuse it.’
Randulph’s bold declaration had well-nigh cost him dear. Cries of ‘spy!’ ‘traitor!’ ‘Hanoverian!’ ‘down with him!’ resounded on all sides; the landlord rushed to the door, and placed his back against it, to prevent any attempt at egress in that way; while Sir Norfolk Salusbury, plucking his long blade from its sheath, and making it whistle over his head, kicked a chair that stood between him and the young man out of the way, and bade him, in a stern tone, defend himself. The confusion was increased by the vociferations of Mr. Cripps, and by an accident caused by Sir Bulkeley Price, who, in hurrying round the table, contrived to entangle himself in the cover, and dragging it off, precipitated the bottles and glasses to the ground, drenching the lower limbs of his brother baronet in the contents of the fractured bowl. The only two persons apparently unmoved in the midst of this uproar were its author and Cardwell Firebras. The latter made no hostile display, and did not even alter his position, but kept his eye steadily fixed upon Randulph, as if anxious to observe the effect of the incident upon him. The young man maintained his firmness throughout. He retreated a few steps towards the wall, and put himself in a posture of defence. The nearest of his antagonists was Sir Norfolk Salusbury; but seeing the others press forward, the chivalrous Welsh baronet declined commencing the attack.