The sound was smothered under his compressed lips, his face wrung itself again crimson with a hideous squeeze, and Puddock thought the moment of his dissolution was come, and almost wished it over.

‘Don’t try to speak—­pray, Sir, don’t—­there—­there, now,’ urged Puddock, distractedly; but the injunction was unnecessary.

‘Mr. Nutter,’ said his second sulkily, ’I don’t see anything to satisfy your outraged honour in the curious spectacle of that gentleman sitting on the ground making faces; we came here not to trifle, but, as I conceive, to dispatch business, Sir.’

’To dispatch that unfortunate gentleman, you mean, and that seems pretty well done to your hand,’ said little Dr. Toole, bustling up from the coach where his instruments, lint, and plasters were deposited.  ’What’s it all, eh?—­oh, Dr. Sturk’s been with him, eh?  Oh, ho, ho, ho!’ and he laughed sarcastically, in an undertone, and shrugged, as he stooped down and took O’Flaherty’s pulse in his fingers and thumb.

‘I tell you what, Mr. a—­a—­a—­Sir,’ said Nutter, with a very dangerous look; ’I have had the honour of knowing Lieutenant Puddock since August, 1756; I won’t hurt him, for I like and respect him; but, if fight I must, I’ll fight you, Sir!’

‘Since August, 1756?’ repeated Mr. Mahony, with prompt surprise.  ’Pooh! why didn’t you mention that before?  Why, Sir, he’s an old friend, and you could not pleasantly ask him to volunteer to bare his waypon against the boosom of his friend.  No, Sir, shivalry is the handmaid of Christian charity, and honour walks hand in hand with the human heart!’

With this noble sentiment he bowed and shook Nutter’s cold, hard hand, and then Puddock’s plump little white paw.

You are not to suppose that Pat Mahoney, of Muckafubble, was a poltroon; on the contrary, he had fought several shocking duels, and displayed a remarkable amount of savagery and coolness; but having made a character, he was satisfied therewith.  They may talk of fighting for the fun of it, liking it, delighting in it; don’t believe a word of it.  We all hate it, and the hero is only he who hates it least.’

‘Ugh, I can’t stand it any longer; take me out of this, some of you,’ said O’Flaherty, wiping the damp from his red face.  ’I don’t think there’s ten minutes’ life in me.’

‘De profundis conclamavi,’ murmured fat father Roach; ’lean upon me, Sir.’

‘And me,’ said little Toole.

’For the benefit of your poor soul, my honey, just say you forgive Mr. Nutter before you leave the field,’ said the priest quite sincerely.

‘Anything at all, Father Roach,’ replied the sufferer; ’only don’t bother me.’

‘You forgive him then, aroon?’ said the priest.

‘Och, bother! forgive him, to be sure I do. That’s supposin’, mind, I don’t recover; but if I do——.’

‘Och, pacible, pacible, my son,’ said Father Roach, patting his arm, and soothing him with his voice.  It was the phrase he used to address to his nag, Brian O’Lynn, when Brian had too much oats, and was disagreeably playful.  ’Nansinse, now, can’t you be pacible—­pacible my son—­there now, pacible, pacible.’