“In King Street, by the Butcher’s Hall
       The soldiers on us fell,
     Likewise before their barracks
       (It is the truth I tell). 
     And such a dreadful carnage
       In Boston ne’er was known;
     They killed Samuel Maverick—­
       He gave a piteous groan.”

And, “Fol-de-rol!” roared Captain Campbell, “He gave a piteous groan!”

“John Clark he was wounded,
  On him they did fire;
James Caldwell and Crispus Attucks
  Lay bleeding in the mire;
Their regiment, the twenty-ninth,
  Killed Monk and Sam I Gray,
While Patrick Carr lay cold in death
  And could not flee away—­

“Oh, tally!” broke out Sir John; “are we to listen to such stuff all night?”

More laughter; and Sir George Covert said that he feared Sir John Johnson had no sense of humor.

“I have heard that before,” said Sir John, turning his cold eyes on Sir George.  “But if we’ve got to sing at wine, in Heaven’s name let us sing something sensible.”

“No, no!” bawled Claus.  “This is the abode of folly to-night!” And he sang a catch from “Pills to Purge Melancholy,” as broad a verse as I cared to hear in such company.

“Cheer up, Sir John!” cried Betty Austin; “there are other slippers to drink from—­”

Sir John stood up, exasperated, but could not face the storm of laughter, nor could Dorothy, silent and white in her anger; and she rose to go, but seemed to think better of it and resumed her seat, disdainful eyes sweeping the table.

“Face the fools,” I whispered.  “Your confusion is their victory.”

Captain McDonald, stirring the punch, filled all glasses, crying out that we should drink to our sweethearts in bumpers.

“Drink ’em in wine,” protested Captain Campbell, thickly.  “Who but a feckless McDonald wud drink his leddy in poonch?”

“I said poonch!” retorted McDonald, sternly.  “If ye wish wine, drink it; but I’m thinkin’ the Argyle Campbells are better judges o’ blood than of red wine.

“Stop that clan-feud!” bawled the patroon, angrily.

But the old clan-feud blazed up, kindled from the ever-smouldering embers of Glencoe, which the massacre of a whole clan had not extinguished in all these years.

“And why should an Argyle Campbell judge blood?” cried Captain Campbell, in a menacing voice.

“And why not?” retorted McDonald.  “Breadalbane spilled enough to teach ye.”

“Teach who?”

“Teach you!—­and the whole breed o’ black Campbells from Perth to Galway and Fonda’s Bush, which ye dub Broadalbin.  I had rather be a Monteith and have the betrayal of Wallace cast in my face than be a Campbell of Argyle wi’ the memory o’ Glencoe to follow me to hell.”

“Silence!” roared the patroon, struggling to his feet.  Sir George Covert caught at Captain Campbell’s sleeve as he rose; Sir John Johnson stood up, livid with anger.