“What are you grumbling about, young fellow?” cried one of the officers. “Do you fancy yourself of the same consequence as Milordo? And see, he must wait his time here.”
“We came a good way on foot to-day, sir,” interposed the elder, eagerly, taking the reply on himself, “and we 're tired and weary, and would be deeply obliged if you'd examine us as soon as you could.”
“Stand aside and wait your turn,” was the stern response.
“You almost deserve the fellow's insolence, Billy,” said the youth; “a crown-piece in his hand had been far more intelligible than your appeal to his pity.” And he threw himself wearily down on a stone bench.
Aroused by the accent of his own language, Lord Glencore sat up in his carriage, and leaned out to catch sight of the speaker; but the shadow of the overhanging roof concealed him from view. “Can't you suffer those two poor fellows to move on?” whispered his Lordship, as he placed a piece of money in the officer's hand; “they look tired and jaded.”
“There, thank his Excellency for his kindness to you, and go your way,” muttered the officer to Billy, who, without well understanding the words, drew nigh the window; but the glass was already drawn up, the postilions were once more in their saddles, and away dashed the cumbrous carriage in all the noise and uproar that is deemed the proper tribute to rank.
The youth heard that they were free to proceed, with a half-dogged indifference, and throwing his knapsack on his shoulders, moved away.
“I asked them if they knew one of her name in the city, and they said, 'No,'” said the elder.
“But they so easily mistake names: how did you call her?”
“I said 'Harley,—la Signora Harley,'” rejoined the other; “and they were positive she was not here. They never heard of her.”