“We were in bed, Sire,” threw in Moll, thinking to come to the rescue of her mistress.
“Marry, truly,” said Nell, catching at the cue, “–asleep, Sire, sound asleep; and our prayers said.”
“Tilly-vally,” exclaimed the King, “we might credit thy tongue, wench, but for the prayers. No digressions, spider Nell. My sword is in a fighting mood. ’Sdeath, call forth the knight-errant who holds thy errant heart secure for one short hour!”
“The knight of my heart!” cried Nell. “Ah, Sire, you know his name.”
She looked at his Majesty with eyes of unfailing love; but the King was true to his jest.
“Yea, marry, I do,” laughed Charles, tauntingly, with a wink at his companions; “a pretty piece of heraldry, a bold escutcheon, a dainty poniard–pale as a lily, and how he did sigh and drop his lids and smirk and smirk and dance your latest galliard to surpass De Grammont. Ask brother James how he did dance.”
“Nay, Sire,” hastily interceded the ever-gallant Rochester, “his Highness of York has suffered enough.”
York frowned at the reference; for he had been robbed of his lady at the dance by Adair. He could not forget that. Heedless of his royalty, bestowed by man, she, like the others, had followed in the train of the Irish spark, who was royal only by nature.
“Hang the coxcomb!” he snarled.
“’Slife, I will,” replied Charles, slyly, “an you overtake him, brother.”