“Oh, Master Gabriel! I be glad to see you, we be that frightful!”
She used the Herefordshire phrase for being frightened, but Gabriel could hardly restrain a smile, for her terror had certainly not improved her looks.
“What has frightened you?” he asked, following her into the house. “And who in the world is making that noise?”
“Aw, sir, ’tis naught but Maria, she’s always timbersome, and to-night there’s good cause with the soldiers clamouring at Byster’s Gate.”
“What soldiers?” exclaimed Gabriel in astonishment. “I had heard naught.”
“Parliament soldiers, sir,” said Durdle, trembling. “Mick Thompson, my Valentine, he told me they’ve been standing outside these two hours, and he do think Price, the mayor, be going to let ’em in. Peace, you hussy!” she added, turning to shake the hysterical maid who had come out into the passage at the sound of a man’s voice.
“Oh, sir! Oh, sir!” cried Maria, “don’t let ’em kill us!”
“No, Master Gabriel, say a good word for me,” said Durdle, imploringly. “For if I have called ’em Roundheads and traitors, ’tis the tongue which, as the Scripture says, is a deadly evil. You’ll be witness, sir, that I always had a tongue that would be wagging; some are born that way, and others they be as mum as mice, but the quiet ones is often the most dangerous, being you don’t know what to expect of ’em.”
“Why, Durdle, do you take them for savages? They won’t molest you,” said Gabriel, with a smile.
“I’ll never say another word agin the Parliament if only the soldiers will let me be and not come nigh the house,” said Durdle. “But if they was to come here, and me left with naught but that screeching hussy for company, I should go stark mad with fright.”