e emotion, and
gave it back with slightly trembling fingers.

"I have a headache," she said suddenly. "I am not so brave as I thought
I was; you will let me say good night?"

She smiled to Count Victor with a face most wan.

"My dear, you are like a ghost," said her father, and as she left the
room he looked after her affectionately.

CHAPTER XX -- AN EVENING'S MELODY IN THE BOAR'S HEAD INN

The Boar's Head Inn, for all its fine cognomen, was little better than
any of the numerous taverns that kept discreet half-open doors to the
wynds and closes of the Duke's burgh town, but custom made it a preserve
of the upper class in the community. There it was the writers met their
clients and cozened them into costly law pleas over the genial jug
or chopine; the through-going stranger took his pack there and dwelt
cheaply in the attics that looked upon the bay and upon the little
harbour where traffic dozed upon the swinging tide, waiting the goodwill
of mariners in no hurry to leave a port so alluring; in its smoke-grimed
public-room skippers frequented, full of loud tales of roving, and even
the retinue of MacCailen was not averse from an evening's merriment in a
company where no restraint of the castle was expected, and his Grace was
mentioned but vaguely as a personal pronoun.

There was in the inn a _sanctum sanctorum_ where only were allowed the
bailies of the burgh, a tacksman of position, perhaps, from the landward
part, or the like of the Duke's Chamberlain, who was no bacchanal, but
loved the company of honest men in their hours of manumission. Here the
bottle was of the best, and the conversation most genteel--otherwise
there had been no Sim MacTaggart in the company where he reigned the
king. It was a state that called for shrewd deportment. One must not be
too free, for an excess of freedom cheapened the affability, and yet
one must be hail fellow with magistrate--and even an odd master
mariner--with no touch of condescension for the Highland among them who
could scent the same like _aqua vito_ and resent it like a push of the
hand.

He came not often, but ever was he welcome, those nights the more
glorious for his qualities of humour and generosity, his tales that
stirred like the brassy cry of trumpets, his tolerance of the fool and
his folly, his fatalist excuse for any sin except the scurviest. And
there was the flageolet! You will hear the echo of it yet in that burgh
town where he performed; its