"I was sure of it! I was sure of it!" shouted Springall; "the cloak, the
hat--all! Now will I be even with thee for hanging me over the cliff,
like a poor fish in a heron's claw, and all for nothing."
"Go to, Springall," said De Guerre, coming up, pleased at observing that
the wrathful glance of the stranger had changed into a smiling
good-humoured look at the boy's harmless impetuosity: "Go to, Springall;
the double-dub and the Canary are in thine eyes, and in thy
scatter-pate. What could you know of this strange gentleman?"
"I vow by the compass," replied the boy, suffering his grasp on the
cloak to relax, as he gazed in no less amazement on the Cavalier; "we
are bewitched! all bewitched! I left you, sir, on your way to Gull's
Nest with wee Robin; and here you are keeping company with this very
hey-ho sort of--But by the Law Harry! he's off again!" exclaimed
Springall, whose astonishment had got the better of his watchfulness,
and who perceived, on turning round, that the mysterious gentleman had
disappeared.
"You are not going to be mad enough to follow any one into Sir Robert
Cecil's hall!" argued De Guerre, at the same time seizing Springall's
arm.
"Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! that I should ever live to see you, sir, in league
with a bogle! Why, I vow I had the mark of that devil's hand on me in
black lumps, just as if I was burnt with what our scourer calls
ague-fortys. As I am a living man, he went from off the brow of the
cliff, just like a foam-wreath."
"Pshaw! Spring; how can you or any one else tell 'who's who,' on a dark
night?"
"Could I be deceived in the cut of his jib or mainsail, ye'r honour? to
say nothing of the figure-head!--Am I a fool?"
"You are not over wise, just now, my gay sailor; so off to your
hammock."
"And must I see no more of that old gentleman?"
"Not to-night, Spring; perhaps to-morrow he may give you satisfaction,"
added Walter, smiling at his own conceit.
The youth went off, not very steadily, to the little gate by which he
entered; and a servant immediately announced to De Guerre, that Sir
Robert Cecil waited for him in the supper-hall.
He followed the domestic through the great vestibule, which bore a more
cheerful aspect than on the sad but memorable night of Hugh Dalton's
most unwelcome visit. Although the spring was considerably advanced, the
fagot blazed up the huge chimney, and illumined every corner of the
overgrown apartment. The grim portraits which graced the walls looked
more repugnant than usual in the red light that was thrown upon them by
the glowing fire; while beneath hung the very suits of armour in which,
if their most approved chroniclers are to be believed, they had
performed feats of valour. Upon the table of massive marble were strewed
sundry hawk's hoods, bells and jesses; some fishing-tackle, and a
silver-mounted fowling-piece also appeared amid the mélange; while a
little black spaniel, of the breed that was afterwards distinguished by
a royal name, was busily engaged in pulling the ears of a magnificent
hound of the wolf kind, who, shaggy and sleepy, seemed little disposed
to be roused from his lair by the caprioles of the diminutive creature
that hardly reached to the first joint of his fore-leg. The lesser
animal, in accordance with the general custom of his kind, ran yelping
and barking at the stranger as he advanced up the hall; while the more
sagacious and dangerous dog raised his head, shook his ears, stretched
forth his paws, and elevated his broad chest, then sniffed the air so as
to be able to remember De Guerre if ever he needed to do so; seeing that
he was escorted by the servant, and therefore, doubtless, a person of
respectability, he composed himself again to rest as De Guerre entered
the presence of Sir Robert Cecil.