"Good sir—or—or my lord," here interposed Papa Legros, who was still in a grave state of mental perturbation, "you see that the decision doth not rest with me—Heaven help me, but with all your fault I would—somehow—somehow have entrusted my child in your keeping with an easy heart."
"And may God bless you for these words, good Master," said Michael fervently.
"But you see, kind sir—I mean my lord—that this cannot be. My lord of Stowmaries—if so be that he is that no longer—yet as lord of Stowmaries he did wed my daughter. She feels—and rightly, too, no doubt—that she owes fealty to him. God knows but 'tis all very puzzling and I never was a casuist, but she says this is right and no doubt it is. It had all been much easier but for this additional grave trouble which threatens my lord."
"What additional grave trouble? I know of none such," queried Michael.
"A scoundrel, liar and perjurer hath laid information against my lord, that he did conspire against the King of England."
"Impossible."
"Ay! 'tis true, good my lord. The damned ruffian came to Paris to inform me of all the lies which he meant to tell against Lord Stowmaries, hoping that I would be pleased thereat and would reward him for his perjuries. I kicked him out of my house, and my daughter and I came to warn my lord of the mischief that was brewing against him."
A frown of deep perplexity darkened Michael's brow.
"Good master tailor, I pray you leave me to see my cousin forthwith. The trouble, alas, if your information be correct, is graver than even you have any idea of. England is mad just now! Terror hath chased away all her reason, and, God help her, all her sense of justice. It may be that I shall have to arrange that my cousin leave the country as soon as may be. An you return to France soon he could travel in your company."
"I would wish to see my lord myself," said Rose Marie.