“How so,” she cried in her pretty foreign English. “Fortwit’ after my song? But now, at once, if you prefer! Your lordship is quick tired!”
She sprang from the seat as she spoke. But he, stretching a lazy arm, caught her by her yielding waist.
“I said, if you wish it, Mignonne. In love I am no highwayman, but a courteous dealer.”
She feigned to struggle, brushing his cheek with her curls; then gave him all the candour of her eyes and the glint of a smile from her wicked lips; upon which, suddenly, he kissed them.
“Ah! highwayman, after all!” she mocked.
He drew her close to him, laughing silently.
“Milord Constable,” said she, “if one of your soldiers down there should chance to look up, it is all over with … your reputation.”
Again he laughed, struck by the audacious humour of the soft creature within the circle of his arm.
“Madame,” said he, then, with unexpected gravity, “my soldiers have long ceased to look up. My reputation is too well established to be worth looking to.”