“Stand close, Moll,” entreated Nell, as she answered the would-be intruder with the question:
“Who are ye? Who are ye?”
“Old Rowley himself!” replied the guttural voice.
This was followed by hoarse laughter from many throats.
“The King–as I thought!” whispered Nell. “Good lack; what shall I do with Adair? Plague on’t, he’ll be mad if I keep him waiting, and madder if I let him in. Where are your wits, Moll? Run for my gown; fly–fly!”
Moll hastened to do the bidding.
Nell rushed to the entry-door, in frantic agitation.
“The bolt sticks, Sire,” she called, pretending to struggle with the door, hoping so to stay his Majesty until she should have time to dispose of poor Adair. “How can I get out of these braveries?” she then asked herself, tugging awkwardly at one part of the male attire and then at another. “I don’t know which end of me to begin on first.”
Moll re-entered the room with a bundle of pink in her arms, which turned out to be a flowing, silken robe, trimmed with lace.
“Here is the first I found,” she said breathlessly.