The landlord, however, was beside himself. He stood at the kitchen-door gesticulating ferociously and still shouting at the top of his voice: “Constable Swallow! Help, help; thieves; Constable Swallow!”
Swallow staggered into the room with all his dignity aboard. Tankard in hand, he made a dive for the table, and catching it firmly, surveyed the scene.
Nell turned to her lover for protection.
“Murder, hic!” ejaculated the constable. “Thieves! What’s the row?–Hic!”
“Arrest this blackguard,” commanded the landlord, nervously, “this perfiler of honest men.”
“Arrest!–You drunken idiot!” indignantly exclaimed Charles; and his sword cut the air before the constable’s eyes.
Nell seized his arm. Her woman’s intuition showed her the better course.
“You will raise a nest of them,” she whispered. “You need your wits, Sire; not your sword.”
“Nay; come on, I say,” cried Charles, fearlessly. “We’ll see what his Majesty’s constables are made of.”
“You rogue–Posse!” exclaimed Swallow, starting boldly for the King, then making a brilliant retreat, calling loudly for help, as the rapier tickled him in the ribs.