O’Flaherty felt himself passing under the chill and dismal shadow of death once more, such was the eloquence of Puddock, and so impressible his own nature, as he followed the appeal of his second.  ’Life is sweet;’ and, though the compound was nauseous, and a necessity upon him of swallowing it in horrid instalments, spoonful after spoonful, yet, though not without many interruptions, and many a shocking apostrophe, and even some sudden paroxysms of horror, which alarmed Puddock, he did contrive to get through it pretty well, except a little residuum in the bottom, which Puddock wisely connived at.

The clink of a horse-shoe drew Puddock to the window.  Sturk riding into town, reined in his generous beast, and called up to the little lieutenant.

‘Well, he’s taken it, eh?’

Puddock smiled a pleasant smile and nodded.

‘Walk him about, then, for an hour or so, and he’ll do.’

‘Thank you, Sir,’ said little Puddock, gaily.

’Don’t thank me, Sir, either of you, but remember the lesson you’ve got,’ said the doctor, tartly, and away he plunged into a sharp trot, with a cling-clang and a cloud of dust.  And Puddock followed that ungracious leech, with a stare of gratitude and admiration, almost with a benediction.  And his anxiety relieved, he and his principal prepared forthwith to provide real work for the surgeons.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE ORDEAL BY BATTLE.

The chronicles of the small-sword and pistol are pregnant with horrid and absurd illustrations of certain great moral facts.  Let them pass.  A duel, we all know, spirit of ’Punch and Judy’—­a farce of murder.  Sterne’s gallant father expired, or near it, with the point of a small-sword sticking out two feet between his shoulders, all about a goose-pie.  I often wondered what the precise quarrel was.  But these tragedies smell all over of goose-pie.  Why—­oh, why—­brave Captain Sterne, as with saucy, flashing knife and fork you sported with the outworks of that fated structure, was there no augur at thine elbow, with a shake of his wintry beard, to warn thee that the birds of fate—­thy fate—­sat vigilant under that festive mask of crust?  Beware, it is Pandora’s pie!  Madman! hold thy hand!  The knife’s point that seems to thee about to glide through that pasty is palpably levelled at thine own windpipe!  But this time Mephistopheles leaves the revellers to use their own cutlery; and now the pie is opened; and now the birds begin to sing!  Come along, then to the Fifteen Acres, and let us see what will come of it all.