“Blakeney!” he ventured to say at last cautiously, “Blakeney! are you there?”
The next moment he rounded the rock against which Sir Percy and Marguerite were leaning, and seeing the weird figure still clad in the long Jew’s gaberdine, he paused in sudden, complete bewilderment.
But already Blakeney had struggled to his feet.
“Here I am, friend,” he said with his funny, inane laugh, “all alive! though I do look a begad scarecrow in these demmed things.”
“Zooks!” ejaculated Sir Andrew in boundless astonishment as he recognised his leader, “of all the . . .”
The young man had seen Marguerite, and happily checked the forcible language that rose to his lips, at sight of the exquisite Sir Percy in this weird and dirty garb.
“Yes!” said Blakeney, calmly, “of all the . . . hem! . . . My friend!—I have not yet had time to ask you what you were doing in France, when I ordered you to remain in London? Insubordination? What? Wait till my shoulders are less sore, and, by Gad, see the punishment you’ll get.”
“Odd’s fish! I’ll bear it,” said Sir Andrew, with a merry laugh, “seeing that you are alive to give it. . . . Would you have had me allow Lady Blakeney to do the journey alone? But, in the name of heaven, man, where did you get these extraordinary clothes?”
“Lud! they are a bit quaint, ain’t they?” laughed Sir Percy, jovially. “But, odd’s fish!” he added, with sudden earnestness and authority, “now you are here, Ffoulkes, we must lose no more time: that brute Chauvelin may send some one to look after us.”
Marguerite was so happy, she could have stayed here for ever, hearing his voice, asking a hundred questions. But at mention of Chauvelin’s name she started in quick alarm, afraid for the dear life she would have died to save.