Satchell's manner even as the
words of it aped her matter, but the dame was too pleased with
herself and the world to heed what it was that set the gentlemen
laughing.

"So, so," Radlett hummed approval. "Mrs. Satchell, will you ride with
me to the King?"

Mrs. Satchell dipped him a swimming reverence, but she shook her head
decisively.

"Your honor means well, but I cannot leave my lady. The Roundheads
might come again."

The Lord Fawley had by this seen his glass filled by Tiffany and was
staring boldly into her pretty face, much to the exasperation of
honest Thoroughgood, chafing in the background.

"Do you handle a pike, prettikins?" Fawley asked. Prettikins dropped
him a courtesy and shook her curls.

"No, my lord," she whispered, "I am not very soldierly."

It was now Ingrow's turn to have his glass filled and to stare
admiration at the pretty serving-woman.

"If you have a mind to enlist," he said, temptingly, "you shall be
ensign in my troop and we'll carry your kirtle for a flag."

Whether Mrs. Satchell considered that Tiffany was like to be
embarrassed by the attentions of the gentry, or whether she
considered that those attentions diverted too much notice from
herself as the heroine of the servants' hall, she certainly came to
the rescue, edging her bulk between the girl and Ingrow.

"She is too green for your grace," she insisted. "You need a fine
woman like me for your flag-bearer."

Even Ingrow's readiness found him something at a loss for an answer.
He looked as if he feared lest dame Satchell might take him in an
embrace. Brilliana, now that all the glasses were charged, decided
that the company had tasted enough of Mrs. Satchell's humors.

"I thank you, Mistress Satchell," she said, quietly, and Mrs.
Satchell, rightly reading in the tones of her mistress's voice
permission to retire, withdrew in good order, beaming and bobbing to
all the gentlemen and followed by Shard and Tiffany, who, with lids
demurely lowered, avoided recognition of the admiring glances of
Fawley and Ingrow.

Brilliana turned to her company and lifted her glass.

"Drink, gentles," she summoned. "Drink 'The King!'"

All the Cavaliers shouted the loyal toast so that the words "The
King!" seemed to ring in every nook of the great hall; then every
Cavalier drained his glass.

"Ah," sighed Lord Fawley, as he set down his empty vessel, "I could
drink the King's health forever."

"I swear it would sweeten sour ale,"