“No wonder we should go afoot now,” said Mark, bitterly.
“Well, well—it's the will of God,” ejaculated Mary, piously, “and who knows what's in store for you yet?”
“That's the very thing I do be telling him,” said Lanty, who only waited for the right moment to chime in with the conversation. “There's fine times coming.”
Mary stared at the speaker with the eager look of one who wished to derive a meaning deeper than the mere words seemed to convey, and then, checking her curiosity at a gesture from Lanty, she set about arranging the supper, which only awaited his arrival.
Mark ate but little of the fare before him, though Mary's cookery was not without its temptations; but of the wine—and it was strong Burgundy—he drank freely. Goblet after goblet he drained with that craving desire to allay a thirst, which is rather the symptom of a mind fevered by passion than by malady. Still, as he drank, no sign of intoxication appeared; on the contrary, his words evinced a tone of but deeper resolution, and a more settled purpose than at first, when he told how he had promised never to leave his father, although all his hopes pointed to the glorious career a foreign service would open before him.
“It was a good vow you made, and may the saints enable you to keep it,” said Mary.
“And for the matter of glory, maybe there's some to be got nearer home, and without travelling to look for it,” interposed Lanty.
“What do you mean?” said Mark, eagerly.
“Fill your glass. Take the big one, for it's a toast I'm going to give you—are you ready? Here now, then—drink—
A stout heart and mind,
And an easterly wind,
And the Devil behind The Saxon.”