worse save for a torn face and bruised hands.
The first fall was Volney’s, and I grudged it him; but as I took my way to Balmerino’s lodgings my heart was far from heavy. The girl was safe for the present. I knew Volney well enough for that. That his plan was to take her to The Oaks and in seclusion lay a long siege to the heart of the girl, I could have sworn. But from London to Epsom is a far cry, and between them much might happen through chance and fate and—Kenneth Montagu.
2. Speldering in the glaur—sprawling in the mud.
Chapter III
Deoch Slaint an Righ!
“You’re late, Kenn,” was Balmerino’s greeting to me.
“Faith, my Lord, I’m earlier than I might have been. I found it hard to part from a dear friend who was loathe to let me out of his sight,” I laughed.
The Scotchman buckled on his sword and disappeared into the next room. When he returned a pair of huge cavalry pistols peeped from under his cloak.
“Going to the wars, my Lord?” I quizzed gaily.
“Perhaps. Will you join me?”
“Maybe yes and maybe no. Is the cause good?”
“The best in the world.”
“And the chances of success?”
“Fortune beckons with both hands.”
“Hm! Has she by any chance a halter in her hands for Kenn Montagu and an axe for Balmerino since he is a peer?”
“Better the sharp edge of an axe than the dull edge of hunger for those we love,” he answered with a touch of bitterness.
His rooms supplied the sermon to his text. Gaunt poverty stared at me on every hand. The floor was bare and the two ragged chairs were rickety. I knew now why the white-haired peer was so keen to try a hazard of new fortunes for the sake of the wife in the North.
“Where may you be taking me?” I asked presently, as we hurried through Piccadilly.
“If you ask no questions——” he began dryly.
“——You’ll tell me no lies. Very good. Odd’s my life, I’m not caring! Any direction is good enough for me—unless it leads to Tyburn. But I warn you that I hold myself unpledged.”
“I shall remember.”
I was in the gayest spirits imaginable. The task I had set myself of thwarting Volney and the present uncertainty of my position had combined to lend a new zest to life. I felt the wine of youth bubble in my veins, and I was ready for whatever fortune had in store.
Shortly we arrived at one of those streets of unimpeachable respectability that may be duplicated a hundred times in London. Its characteristics are monotony and dull mediocrity; a dead sameness makes all the houses appear alike. Before one of these we stopped.
Lord Balmerino knocked, A man came to the door and thrust out a head suspiciously. There was a short whispered colloquy between him and the Scotch lord, after which he beckoned me to enter. For an instant I hung back.
“What are you afraid of, man?” asked Balmerino roughly.
I answered to the spur and pressed forward at once. He led the way along a dark passage and down a flight of stone steps into a cellar fitted up as a drinking room. There was another low-toned consultation before we were admitted. I surmised that Balmerino stood sponsor for me, and though I was a little disturbed at my equivocal position, yet I was strangely glad to be where I was. For here was a promise of adventure to stimulate a jaded appetite. I assured myself that at least I should not suffer dulness.
There were in the room a scant dozen of men, and as I ran them over with my eye the best I could say for their quality in life was that they had not troubled the tailor of late. Most of them were threadbare at elbow and would have looked the better of a good dinner. There were two or three exceptions, but for the most part these broken gentlemen bore the marks of recklessness and dissipation. Two I knew: the O’Sullivan that had assisted at the plucking of a certain pigeon on the previous night, and Mr. James Brown, alias Mac-something or other, of the supple sword and the Highland slogan.
Along with another Irishman named Anthony Creagh the fellow O’Sullivan rushed up to my Lord, eyes snapping with excitement. He gave me a nod and a “How d’ye do, Montagu? Didn’t know you were of the honest party,” then broke out with—
“Great news, Balmerino! The French fleet has sailed with transports for fifteen thousand men. I have advices direct from the Prince. Marshal Saxe commands, and the Prince himself is with them. London will be ours within the week. Sure the good day is coming at last. The King—God bless him!—will have his own again; and a certain Dutch beer tub that we know of will go scuttling back to his beloved Hanover, glory be the day!”
Balmerino’s eyes flashed.
“They have sailed then at last. I have been expecting it a week. If they once reach the Thames there is no force in England that can stop them,” he said quietly.
“Surely the small fleet of Norris will prove no barrier?” asked another dubiously.
“Poof! They weel eat heem up jus’ like one leetle mouse, my frien’,” boasted a rat-faced Frenchman with a snap of his fingers. “Haf they not two sheeps to his one?”
“Egad, I hope they don’t eat the mutton then and let Norris go,” laughed Creagh. He was a devil-may-care Irishman, brimful of the virtues and the vices of his race.
I had stumbled into a hornet’s nest with a vengeance. They were mad as March hares, most of them. For five minutes I sat amazed, listening to the wildest talk it had ever been my lot to hear. The Guelphs would be driven out. The good old days would be restored; there would be no more whiggery and Walpolism; with much more of the same kind of talk. There was drinking of wine and pledging of toasts to the King across the water, and all the while I sat by the side of Balmerino with a face like whey. For I was simmering with anger. I foresaw the moment when discovery was inevitable, and in those few minutes while I hung back in the shadow and wished myself a thousand miles away hard things were thought of Arthur Elphinstone Lord Balmerino. He had hoped to fling me out of my depths and sweep me away with the current, but I resolved to show him another ending to it.
Presently Mr. James Brown came up and offered me a frank hand of welcome. Balmerino introduced him as Captain Donald Roy Macdonald. I let my countenance express surprise.
“Surely you are mistaken, my Lord. This gentleman and I have met before, and I think his name is Brown.”
Macdonald laughed a little sheepishly. “The air of London is not just exactly healthy for Highland Jacobite gentlemen at present. I wouldna wonder but one might catch the scarlet fever gin he werena carefu’, so I just took a change of names for a bit while.”
“You did not disguise the Highland slogan you flung out last night,” I laughed.
“Did I cry it?” he asked. “It would be just from habit then. I didna ken that I opened my mouth.” Then he turned to my affairs. “And I suppose you will be for striking a blow for the cause like the rest of us. Well then, the sooner the better. I am fair wearying for a certain day that is near at hand.”
With which he began to hum “The King shall have his own again.”
I flushed, and boggled at the “No!” that stuck in my throat. Creagh, standing near, slewed round his head at the word.
“Eh, what’s that? Say that again, Montagu!”
I took the bull by the horns and answered bluntly, “There has been a mistake made. George is a good enough