"Stap me," jeered Murray. "Our Peter is discovered a squire o' dames—a preux chevalier. Peter, you ha' disguised your talents. We must know more of them."
"Ja," said Peter vacantly.
Mistress O'Donnell rose from her chair.
"Sir—" she addressed my great-uncle—"you will be excusing me if I do not linger for more conversation. What you do hath no concern with me. I am very distraught, and my heart is sick with the black sorrow, and I—I—" she swayed a little—"I would lie me down and—and—weep."
I slipped from my seat and steadied her. Her father, opposite, blinked at us through maudlin tears.
"A sweet maid!" he hiccuped. "She's all I ha' left from following the Lost Cause. Curse the Hanoverian——"
"Take her to your stateroom, Robert," said my great-uncle. "You must lodge with Peter."
He rose, himself, bowing with the fine courtesy which became him nobly.
"What we can do to serve you, dear lass, that will we right gladly. In the mean time, do you rest and forget the nightmare scenes I would have spared you had I known how."
I guided her as far as the stateroom door. She thanked me faintly as I opened it for her, and I was abruptly impelled to recover her friendship.