“Oh, yes, monseigneur!” There was something of a joyous ring in the prompt answer.
“Chitterley!”
“Yes, my lord!”
“His Majesty himself is with us to-night! Take up candles and lay the supper table—”
“Yes—my lord.” The quavering response was given in tones of doubt and wonder.
Rockhurst adjusted his cloak,—a garment more weather-stained and damaged even than the suit it covered,—flung upon his head the battered beaver with its derision of a Cavalier plume, and was unlocking the door when Marcelin emerged.
“I have taken the liberty to bring a basket, monseigneur,” said the man, casting the object (which was of bloated dimensions) on the floor whilst he settled his lantern to better trim. “Foraging?—Good news, my faith, for it’s a weary time since we have had but Poor-John or a sandhill rabbit to our stringy cabbage! Monseigneur has his plan, no doubt?”
“None as yet,” said Rockhurst. “But, at whatever cost, Marcelin, we return not here empty-handed.”
“As soon die of a knock on the head as of famine,” said the Frenchman lightly. “Milord hardly conceives with what joy I am of his enterprise. I would follow milord at all times, but to-night there is hardly a crime I do not feel capable of after these days of stock-fish and clear water.”