is charge. The old man had come to some better sensing of
things,--he had been vastly more frightened than hurt, as I
suspected,--and to Richard's eager questionings was able to give some
feebly querulous replies.

"Yes, they're gone--all gone, curse 'em; and they've taken every plack
and bawbee they could lay their thieving hands upon," he mumbled. "'Tis
like the dogs; to stay on here and eat and drink me out of house and
home, and then to scurry off when I'm most like to need protection."

"But Madge?" says Richard. "Is she safe in bed?"

"She's a jade!" was all the answer he got. Then the old man sat up and
peered around the end of the settle to where I stood, cup and bottle in
hand. "'Tis a Christian thought," he quavered. "Give me a sup of the
wine, man."

I served him and had a Scottish blessing for my wastefulness, because,
forsooth, the broken bottle spilt a thimbleful in the pouring. I saw he
did not recognize me, and was well enough content to let it rest thus.

Richard suffered him to drink in peace, but when the cup was empty he
renewed his asking for Margery. At this the master of the house,
heartened somewhat by my father's good madeira, made shift to get upon
his feet in some tremulous fashion.

"Madge, d'ye say? She's gone; gone where neither you nor that dour-faced
deevil that befooled us all will find her soon, I promise you, Dickie
Jennifer!" he snapped; and I gave them my back and stumbled blindly to
the door, making sure his next word would tell my poor wronged lad all
that he should have learned from never any other lips but mine own. But
Richard himself parried the impending stroke of truth, saying:

"So she is safe and well, Mr. Stair, 'tis all I ask to know."

"She is safe enough; safer by far than you are at this minute, my young
cock-a-hoop rebel, now that the king--God save him!--has his own again."

I turned quickly on the broad door-stone to look within. Out of doors
the early August dawn was graying mistily overhead, but in the house the
sputtering tallow dip still struggled feebly with the gloom. They stood
facing each other, these two, my handsome lad, the pick and choice of a
comely race, looking, for all his toils and vigils, fresh and fit; and
the old man in his woolen dressing-gown, his wig awry, and his lean face
yellow in the candle-light.

"How is that you say, Mr. Stair?" says Dick. "The king--but that is only
the old Tory cry. There will never be a king again this side