“It is Satan and his imps,” cried Moll, attempting to draw Nell from the window.
“Tush, little one,” laughed Nell, reprovingly. “Satan is my warmest friend. Besides, they cannot cross the moat. The ramparts are ours. The draw-bridge is up.”
In a merry mood, she threw a piece of drapery, mantle-like, about Adair’s shoulders, quite hiding them, and, decapitating a grim old suit of armour, placed the helmet on her head. Thus garbed, she threw the window quickly open and stepped boldly upon the ledge, within full view of the band beneath. As the moonlight gleamed upon her helmet, one might have fancied her a goodly knight of yore; and, indeed, she looked quite formidable.
“Nell, what are you doing?” called Moll, wildly, from a point of safety. “They can see and shoot you.”
“Tilly-vally, girl,” replied Nell, undaunted now that she could see that there was no danger, “we’ll parley with the enemy in true feudal style. We’ll teach them we have a man about the house. Ho, there, strangers of the night–breakers of the King’s peace and the slumbers of the righteous! Brawlers, knaves; would ye raise honest men from their beds at such an hour? What means this jargon of tipsy voices? What want ye?”
A chorus of throats without demanded, in muffled accents: “Drink!” “Drink!” “Sack!” “Rhenish!”
“Do ye think this a tavern, knaves?” responded Nell, in a husky, mannish voice. “Do ye think this a vintner’s? There are no topers here. Jackanapes, revellers; away with you, or we’ll rouse the citadel and train the guns.”
“I WAS THAT BOY!”