“No Englishman,” says he, in a curious accent not unlike our brogue, “but a plain gentleman, though he bears a king’s name and hath Alan Breck to his by-name.”
“Come, come,” says I in German, “let the gentleman go his way; he is my own countryman.” This was true enough for them; and you should have seen the Highlander’s eyes flash, and grow dim again.
I took his arm, for Potzdorff will expect me to know all about the stranger, and marched him down to the Drei Könige.
“I am your host, sir; what do you call for, Mr. Stuart of —?” said I, knowing there is never a Scot but has the name of his kailyard tacked to his own.
“A King’s name is good enough for me; I bear it plain. Mr. —?” said he, reddening.
“They call me the Chevalier Barry, of Ballybarry.”
“I am in the better company, sir,” quoth he, with a grand bow.
When a bowl of punch was brought he takes off his hat, and drinks, very solemnly, “To the King!”
“Over the water?” I asked.
“Nay, sir, on this side,” he said; and I smoked the Jacobite. But to shorten the story, which amuses my tedium but may beget it in you, I asked him if he knew the cards.