“Morbleu!” said Bibot, whose purple cheeks had suddenly become white with fear.
“The cart contained the ci-devant Comtesse de Tournay and her two children, all of them traitors and condemned to death.”
“And their driver?” muttered Bibot, as a superstitious shudder ran down his spine.
“Sacré tonnerre,” said the captain, “but it is feared that it was that accursed Englishman himself—the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
CHAPTER II.
“THE FISHERMAN’S REST”
In the kitchen Sally was extremely busy—saucepans and frying-pans were standing in rows on the gigantic hearth, the huge stock-pot stood in a corner, and the jack turned with slow deliberation, and presented alternately to the glow every side of a noble sirloin of beef. The two little kitchen-maids bustled around, eager to help, hot and panting, with cotton sleeves well tucked up above the dimpled elbows, and giggling over some private jokes of their own, whenever Miss Sally’s back was turned for a moment. And old Jemima, stolid in temper and solid in bulk, kept up a long and subdued grumble, while she stirred the stock-pot methodically over the fire.
“What ho! Sally!” came in cheerful if none too melodious accents from the coffee-room close by.
“Lud bless my soul!” exclaimed Sally, with a good-humoured laugh, “what be they all wanting now, I wonder!”
“Beer, of course,” grumbled Jemima, “you don’t ’xpect Jimmy Pitkin to ’ave done with one tankard, do ye?”
“Mr. ’Arry, ’e looked uncommon thirsty too,” simpered Martha, one of the little kitchen-maids; and her beady black eyes twinkled as they met those of her companion, whereupon both started on a round of short and suppressed giggles.