“And set him pirouetting, Sire,” sardonically suggested James.
“Yea, to the tune of these fiddle-sticks,” laughed Charles, as he unsheathed his rapier. “Search from tile to rafter.”
“Aye, aye,” echoed the omnipresent Rochester, “from cellar to garret.”
Before, however, the command could be obeyed, even in resolution, Nell moved uneasily to a curtain which hung in the corner of the room and placed herself before it, as if to shield a hidden man.
“Sire,” she pleaded fearfully, “spare him, Sire; for my sake, Sire. He is not to blame for loving me. He cannot help it. You know that, Sire!”
“Can he really be here?” muttered Charles, with clouding visage. “Saucy wench! Hey! My blood is charging full-tilt through my veins. Odsfish, we’ll try his mettle once again.”
“Prythee, Sire,” begged Nell, “he is too noble and brave and handsome to die. I love his very image.”
“Oh, ho!” cried Charles. “A silken blind for the silken bird! Hey, St. George for merry England! Come forth, thou picture of cowardice, thou vile slanderer.”
He grasped Nell by the wrist and fairly dragged her across the room. Then, rushing to the curtain, he seized its silken folds and tore it completely from its hangings–only to face himself in a large mirror. “Ods-pitikins, my own reflection!” he exclaimed, with menacing tone, though there was relief as well in his voice. He bent the point of his blade against the floor, gazed at himself in the pier-glass and looked over his shoulder at Nell, who stood in the midst of his courtiers, splitting her sides with laughter, undignified but honest.
“Rogue, rogue,” he cried, “I should turn the point on thee for this trick; but England would be worse than a Puritan funeral with no Nell. Thou shalt suffer anon.”