CHAPTER IV
Lord Dunseveric returned to the dining-room. He found the Comtesse seated on a chair which had been placed on the table to give dignity to her position. On the floor, beneath this lofty throne, knelt Neal Ward, his hands tied behind him with a dinner napkin. Maurice, with a carving-knife in his hand, stood on guard over the prisoner. Una, her eyes shining with laughter, was making a speech.
“Please, don’t interrupt,” said the Comtesse, “we are holding a courtmartial on Mr. Neal. Una is acting as prosecutor; I am the judge. In a few minutes, when I have delivered my sentence, Maurice will flog the prisoner, and afterwards hang him with one of the bell ropes.”
“I want to speak to you, Neal,” said Lord Dunseveric, gravely.
Neal pulled his hands from their bandage, and rose, blinking and uncomfortable, to his feet.
“How solemn you are!” said the Comtesse. “What has that very boorish Captain Twinely been telling you? Has a rebellion broken out? Is there going to be a battle? Have they come to arrest Mr. Neal in real earnest? I believe they have. Never mind, Mr. Neal, we will organise a rescue party. They are not real soldiers, you know—only—-only—what do you call them?—ah, yes, yeomen. We will fall upon these yeomen after dark and carry you off to safety.”
“Maurice,” said Lord Dunseveric, “have two horses saddled, and get on your boots. I shall want you to ride along with me. Come, Neal.”
The three men left the room.
“Una,” said the Comtesse, “come quick and change your dress. We will go and see what is happening. Oh, this is most exciting, and the day has been so dull and long. Come, Una, come; we will not let anyone see us. We will take the most delightful short cuts. We will lie hidden in ditches while they pass. We must see everything. Come, come, come.”
“But—my father——”