Sir Marmaduke opened his eyes wider than he had done since he closed them for his afternoon nap. “Sir George Hamilton!” he repeated, in great astonishment; “how can he be implicated? What d’ye mean, my dear? Dry your eyes, there’s a good girl, and tell your story from the beginning.”
She had recovered her composure now, and made her statement lucidly and without reserve. She detailed the whole circumstances of her lover’s dispute with Captain Bold, and the latter’s threats, from which she gathered, reasonably enough, that another Jacobite rising was imminent, in which their party were to be successful, whereby the loyal subjects of King George, including the Hamiltons, Slap-Jack, her aunt, and herself, were to be ruined, and utterly put to confusion. She urged Sir Marmaduke to lay his hands at once on the conspirators within reach. Three of them, she said, would be together at the “Hamilton Arms” that very evening. She did not suppose two of the gentlemen would make much resistance, as they seemed to be priests; and fighting, she thought, could not be their trade; while as for the red-nosed captain, with his bay mare, though he talked very big, and said he had served in every country in Europe, why, she would not be afraid to promise that cook and herself could do his business, for that matter, with a couple of brooms and a slop-pail.
Sir Marmaduke laughed, but he was listening very attentively now, altogether changed from the self-indulgent slumberer of half an hour ago. As she continued her story his interest became more and more excited, the expression of his face cleared from lazy indifference into shrewd, penetrating common sense, and denoted the importance he attached to her communication, of which not a word escaped him.
At the mention of the red-nosed captain with his bay mare, he interrupted her, dived into a table-drawer, from which he produced a note-book, and referred to an entry amongst its red-lined pages.
“Stop a moment, Mistress Alice,” said he, turning over the leaves. “Here it is. Bay mare, fast, well-bred, kicks in the stable, white hind-foot, star, and snip on muzzle. Owner, middle height, speaks in a shrill voice, long nose, pale face, and flaxen hair in a club.”
Alice’s eyes kindled with the first part of this description, but she seemed disappointed when he reached the end.
“That’s not our captain, Sir Marmaduke,” said she. “Our captain’s got a squeaky voice, sure enough; but his hair is jet-black, and his face, especially his nose, as red, ay, red as my petticoat. It’s the moral of the mare, to be sure, and a wicked beast she is,” added Alice, reflectively.
Sir Marmaduke pondered. “Is your captain, as you call him, a good-looking man?” said he, slyly.
Alice was indignant. “As ugly as sin!” she exclaimed. “Bloodshot eyes, scowling eyebrows, and a seam down one cheek that reaches to his chin. No, Sir Marmaduke, to do him justice, he’s a very hard-featured gentleman, is the captain.”
Sir Marmaduke, keeping his finger between the leaves of his note-book, referred once more to the entry.