Nell motioned to her nervously to put it upon the couch.
“Help me out of this coat,” she pleaded woefully.
Moll took off the coat and then assisted Nell to circumscribe with the gown, from heels to head, her stunning figure, neatly encased in Adair’s habit, which now consisted only of a jaunty shirt of white, gray breeches, shoes and stockings.
“Marry, I would I were a fairy with a magic wand; I could befuddle men’s eyes easier,” Nell lamented.
The King knocked again upon the door sharply.
“Patience, my liege,” entreated Nell, drawing her gown close about her and muttering with personal satisfaction: “There, there; that hides a multitude of sins. The girdle, the girdle! Adair will not escape from this–if we can but keep him quiet; the rogue has a woman’s tongue, and it will out, I fear.”
She snatched up a mirror and arranged her hair as best she could in the dim light, with the cries without resounding in her ears and with Moll dancing anxiously about her.
“Down with the door,” threatened the King, impatiently. “The ram; the battering ram.”
“I come, my love; I come,” cried Nell, in agitation, fairly running to the door to open it, but stopping aghast as her eye caught over her shoulder the sad, telltale condition of the room.
“’Sdeath,” she called in a stage-whisper to Moll; “under the couch with Adair’s coat! Patience, Sire,” she besought in turn the King. “Help me, Moll. How this lock has rusted–in the last few minutes. My sword!” she continued breathlessly to Moll. “My boots! My hat! My cloak!”