uld not
carry much, I should say."

"No, not much, sir," Marmaduke answered, hastily; "leastwise not here,
but----"

"Oh, don't bother your conscience with a thing like that, my good
man," cried Treadway. "Bring us another round of wine, and charge me
up a cup or two for the lad when he wakes. Then his bibulous fortune
will not be all on your head. And"--he turned to Farquhart--"if the
roads to Camberwell be as good--God save the mark!--as the roads from
London here, Mistress Babs will not be calling for our escort until
midnight. Gad! I never traversed such mire. I thought my horse was
down a dozen times."

"And, of course, the Lady Barbara's coach must move more heavily than
we did," agreed Lindley. "As I remember them, the old Gordon hackneys
move as deliberately as old Gordon himself--that is, if horse flesh
can move as slowly as human flesh. Has your lady a large escort from
Camberwell, Percy?"

"Only her servants, I believe." Percy Farquhart's tone was quite
lacking in a lover's interest. "Her father has no faith in the Black
Devil who has haunted our London roads for the past six months, and he
declared that he'd not insult the peace of his majesty's kingdom by
sending an armed escort with his daughter when she entered his
majesty's town. That was why he asked me to meet her here."

"Oh, oh!" rallied his companions, and one of them added: "So, it's at
the father's request that you meet the Lady Barbara. Ah, Percy, Percy,
can't you pretend affection, even if you have it not, for Lord
Gordon's daughter and her golden charms?"

"I'd pretend it to her if she'd let me," answered Farquhart, still
indifferently. "And I'd pretend it about her if it were worth while.
But I'm afraid that my friends know me too well to suffer such
pretense. I'm with friends to-night"--he glanced only at Treadway and
at Lindley--"so why taint tone or manner with lies? The Lady Barbara
Gordon knows as well as I know that it's her lands that are to be wed
to mine, that her gold must gild my title, that her heirs and my heirs
must be the same. Old Gordon holds us both with a grip like iron, and
we are both puppets in his hands. She knows it, and I know it. She is
as resentful of pretended affection as she would be of love--from me.
But come, let us forget the Lady Barbara while we may--after we have
drunk a measure of wine to her safe conduct from Camberwell to The
Jolly Grig. From here to London her safety will depend on our swords.
T