glass. When she had tasted her glass, she said she had a headache, and would go to bed; and so I asked her blessing, as becomes a dutiful son—(the modern BLOODS have given up the respectful ceremonies which distinguished a gentleman in my time)—and she left me and Captain Fagan to talk over our important business.
‘Indeed,’ said the Captain,’ I see now no other way out of the scrape than a meeting. The fact is, there was a talk of it at Castle Brady, after your attack upon Quin this afternoon, and he vowed that he would cut you in pieces: but the tears and supplications of Miss Honoria induced him, though very unwillingly, to relent. Now, however, matters have gone too far. No officer, bearing His Majesty’s commission, can receive a glass of wine on his nose—this claret of yours is very good, by the way, and by your leave we’ll ring for another bottle—without resenting the affront. Fight you must; and Quin is a huge strong fellow.’
‘He’ll give the better mark,’ said I. ‘I am not afraid of him.’
‘In faith,’ said the Captain,’ I believe you are not; for a lad, I never saw more game in my life.’
‘Look at that sword, sir,’ says I, pointing to an elegant silver-mounted one, in a white shagreen case, that hung on the mantelpiece, under the picture of my father, Harry Barry. ‘It was with that sword, sir, that my father pinked Mohawk O’Driscol, in Dublin, in the year 1740; with that sword, sir, he met Sir Huddlestone Fuddlestone, the Hampshire baronet, and ran him through the neck. They met on horseback, with sword and pistol, on Hounslow Heath, as I dare say you have heard tell of, and those are the pistols’ (they hung on each side of the picture) ‘which the gallant Barry used. He was quite in the wrong, having insulted Lady Fuddlestone, when in liquor, at the Brentford assembly. But, like a gentleman, he scorned to apologise, and Sir Huddlestone received a ball through his hat, before they engaged with the sword. I am Harry Barry’s son, sir, and will act as becomes my name and my quality.’
‘Give me a kiss, my dear boy,’ said Fagan, with tears in his eyes. ‘You’re after my own soul. As long as Jack Fagan lives you shall never want a friend or a second.’
Poor fellow! he was shot six months afterwards, carrying orders to my Lord George Sackville, at
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