“He’s your paid servant, sworn slave, and the bearer of all tender messages between us.—Now, go you to Kennaston to-night?”
“As sure as I’m Lady Peggy Burgoyne,” returns Biddy. “I start for home ere cock-crow!”
“I’ll follow you poste-haste, but,” cries Sir Robin, “loveliest of created beings, I beseech, I implore! one glimpse of your angelic countenance before we part—to meet only when I can claim you as my own!”
“No! No!” exclaims Biddy, restraining the Baronet’s hand which is laid upon the lutestring of her mask.
“But divine creature, I insist!” with one arm seizing the buxom Lady Biddy about the waist, while with the other he essays to untie the riband which hides her charms from view.
Then Lady Biddy O’Toole, whose lungs were of the best, let such a bawl as rang far up and down the Thames, causing a score of red-stockinged boatmen to leave their wherries and dash up the Gardens; causing every tongue in Vauxhall to cease clacking, every glass to jingle to its table, every echo to resound; every other lady there to shriek; the musicians to stop; the waiters to drop their trays; each gentleman to draw sword; and a vast number of persons of both sexes to shout:
“Watch! Watch! Murder! Thieves! Highwaymen!” and whatever else beside.
While a concourse of people of every condition at once closed in around Sir Robin and Lady Biddy, at the outside rim of which, shivering betwixt terror and that lively curiosity which overrides even a desire for personal safety, gaped the now unmasked Vicar of Friskingdean, unable to find his natural protector and sometime pupil in all this hurly-burly.
