dozen merry-makers at a table hard by, having drunk
themselves out of all sense of fitness, were occupied in baiting a
pale-faced lad, sombrely attired, who seemed sadly out of place in that
wild company--indeed, he had been better advised to have avoided it.

The matter had been set afoot by a pleasantry of Ensign Tyler's, of
Massey's dragoons, with a playful allusion to a letter in a feminine
hand which Kenneth had let fall, and which Tyler had restored to him.
Quip had followed quip until in their jests they transcended all bounds.
Livid with passion and unable to endure more, Kenneth had sprung up.

"Damnation!" he blazed, bringing his clenched hand down upon the table.
"One more of your foul jests and he that utters it shall answer to me!"

The suddenness of his action and the fierceness of his tone and
gesture--a fierceness so grotesquely ill-attuned to his slender frame
and clerkly attire left the company for a moment speechless with
amazement. Then a mighty burst of laughter greeted him, above which
sounded the shrill voice of Tyler, who held his sides, and down whose
crimson cheeks two tears of mirth were trickling.

"Oh, fie, fie, good Master Stewart!" he gasped. "What think you would
the reverend elders say to this bellicose attitude and this profane
tongue of yours?"

"And what think you would the King say to this drunken poltroonery of
yours?" was the hot unguarded answer. "Poltroonery, I say," he repeated,
embracing the whole company in his glance.

The laughter died down as Kenneth's insult penetrated their befuddled
minds. An instant's lull there was, like the lull in nature that
precedes a clap of thunder. Then, as with one accord, a dozen of them
bore down upon him.

It was a vile thing they did, perhaps; but then they had drunk deep, and
Kenneth Stewart counted no friend amongst them. In an instant they had
him, kicking and biting, on the floor; his doublet was torn rudely open,
and from his breast Tyler plucked the letter whose existence had led to
this shameless scene.

But ere he could so much as unfold it, a voice rang harsh and
imperative:

"Hold!"

Pausing, they turned to confront a tall, gaunt man in a leather jerkin
and a broad hat decked by goose-quill, who came slowly forward.

"The Tavern Knight," cried one, and the shout of "A rouse for the hero
of Red Hill!" was taken up on every hand. For despite his sour visage
and ungracious ways there was not a roysterer in the Royal arm