"They are toasting the gallant adventurer," said Sir John; "I pray you, gentlemen, come and join us. Let us drink to the future husband of the tailor's daughter, the future possessor of one hundred and twenty thousand pounds in solid cash and of my lord Stowmaries' eternal gratitude. Let us drink to Michael Kestyon."
"Michael—Kesh—Keshtyon is it?" babbled Sir Knaith.
"The damned blackguard—" murmured Wykeham.
"I say hurrah for Michael Kestyon!" roared my lord Rochester lustily, "the beggar hath pluck. By Gad! won't old Rowley laugh at the adventure? Would I'd had the impudence to go through with it myself!—I say hurrah for Michael Kestyon!"
He lurched forward in the wake of Sir John who had once more turned towards the coffee room, and closely followed by the others, all four men shouting: "Hurrah for Michael Kestyon! Hurrah for the tailor's daughter!"
Their advent was greeted by more vigorous shouting, more singing and cries of: "Hurrah!" which issued from out the darkness. For by now only one last tallow candle was left spluttering and dripping, its feeble yellow rays illumining but one narrow circle of light wherein the remnant of a pie, an overturned bottle and a pool of red wine, stood out as the sole objects actually visible in the room.
In this total darkness, the noise of hoarse shouts, of cries for "Michael Kestyon!" of blasphemies and of oaths sounded weird and satanic, like a babel of ghouls exulting in the realms of the night.
Sir John paused at the door. He had wished to see Michael Kestyon commit himself finally before these other three gentlemen, who were almost partners in the conspiracy. He wanted to see the bond sealed with the word of honour of the rogue who—as Ayloffe well knew—would never break a pledge once given.
Therefore, he called loudly to Michael, and listened for the cheery tones of his voice. But no response came, only from out the gloom a curt answer from Stowmaries:
"Oh! 'tis no use calling for Michael! He hath gone!"