"You must have another word," said Montagu, laughing. "Pooh! pooh! We shall pass, my boy. Now, good-night."
Edward left him, sent the lackey to his room, went to the kitchen, where two of the stable-men were sleeping by the fire, roused one of them to give him a lamp, and retired to the chamber where young Abbot was snoring powerfully. But Edward was ill at ease. He thought that the precautions Lord Montagu had spoken of and ordered were not sufficient: he thought—as all men think, and young men especially—that his own plan was the best. However, he drew the charges of his pistols, loaded and primed them afresh; and then, sitting down at the window, where he had a view of the court-yard on one side and on the other a glance into the passage through the door which he left ajar, he waited, without moving a limb, for the coming of morning.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
At a quarter to four o'clock, Edward Langdale shook young Abbot by the shoulder and with some difficulty succeeded in waking him. "Quick, Abbot! get up!" he said. "Go down and saddle your horse: but make no noise. Do you understand me? No more than an owl. Go down and saddle your horse: do you hear? but be quiet about it."
"What is in the wind?" said the other.
"Nothing to you: but do as you are bidden," answered Edward, and took his way to Mr. Oakingham's room. Here he had more difficulty, for the door was locked or bolted, and he had to make some noise before the good gentleman would open it.
"Why, what is the matter?" asked Oakingham. "Is the house on fire? It is quite dark."
"Here, sir, light your lamp," said Edward. "My lord has changed his mind, and is going to set out directly. You will be left behind if you do not make haste."