“But me no buts! or depart as recreant, not by the door like a man, but up the chimney like a flittermouse.” “But, Mr. Frank!” “Thy vital juice, or the chimney! Choose!” roared Cary in his ear. “Well, if I must,” said Jack; “but it's desperate hard that because you can't keep faith without these barbarous oaths, I must take them too, that have kept faith these three years without any.” At this pathetic appeal Frank nearly melted: but Amyas and Cary had thrust the victim into a chair and all was prepared for the sacrifice. “Bind his eyes, according to the classic fashion,” said Will. “Oh no, dear Mr. Cary; I'll shut them tight enough, I warrant: but not with your dagger, dear Mr. William--sure, not with your dagger? I can't afford to lose blood, though I do look lusty--I can't indeed; sure, a pin would do--I've got one here, to my sleeve, somewhere--Oh!” “See the fount of generous juice! Flow on, fair stream. How he bleeds!--pints, quarts! Ah, this proves him to be in earnest!” “A true lover's blood is always at his fingers' ends.” “He does not grudge it; of course not. Eh, Jack? What matters an odd gallon for her sake?” “For her sake? Nothing, nothing! Take my life, if you will: but--oh, gentlemen, a surgeon, if you love me! I'm going off--I 'm fainting!” “Drink, then, quick; drink and swear! Pat his back, Cary. Courage, man! it will be over in a minute. Now, Frank!--” And Frank spoke-- “If plighted troth I fail, or secret speech reveal, May Cocytean ghosts around my pillow squeal; While Ate's brazen claws distringe my spleen in sunder, And drag me deep to Pluto's keep, 'mid brimstone, smoke, and thunder!” “Placetne, domine?” “Placet!” squeaked Jack, who thought himself at the last gasp, and gulped down full three-quarters of the goblet which Cary held to his lips. “Ugh--Ah--Puh! Mercy on us! It tastes mighty like wine!” “A proof, my virtuous brother,” said Frank, “first, of thy abstemiousness, which has thus forgotten what wine tastes like; and next, of thy pure and heroical affection, by which thy carnal senses being exalted to a higher and supra-lunar sphere, like those Platonical daemonizomenoi and enthusiazomenoi (of whom Jamblichus says that they were insensible to wounds and flame, and much more, therefore, to evil savors), doth make even the most nauseous draught redolent of that celestial fragrance, which proceeding, O Jack! from thine own inward virtue, assimilates by sympathy even outward accidents unto its own harmony and melody; for fragrance is, as has been said well, the song of flowers, and sweetness, the music of apples--Ahem! Go in peace, thou hast conquered!” “Put him out of the door, Will,” said Amyas, “or he will swoon on our hands.” “Give him some sack,” said Frank.