“Oh, Nell, what will you do?” cried Moll in fearful accents as she watched her beautiful mistress standing passion-swayed before her like a queen in the moonlight, the little toe of her slipper nervously beating the sward as she general-like marshalled her wits for the battle.
“See her, see her,–from top to toe!” Nell at length exclaimed. “Oh, there will be sport, sweet mouse. France again against England–the stake, a King!”
She glanced in the direction of the house and cried joyously as she saw Strings hobbling toward her.
“Heaven ever gave me a man in waiting,” she said, gleefully. “Poor fellow, he limps from youthful, war-met wounds. Comrade, are you still strong enough for service?”
“To the death for you, Mistress Nell!” he faithfully replied.
“You know the Duchess of Portsmouth, and where she lives?” artfully inquired Nell.
“Portsmouth!” he repeated, excitedly. “She was here but now, peeping at your windows.”
Nell stood aghast. Her face grew pale, and her lips trembled.
“Here, here!” she exclaimed, incredulously. “The imported hussy!”
She turned hotly upon Strings, as she had upon poor Moll, with an array of questions which almost paralyzed the old fiddler’s wits. “How looks she? What colour eyes? Does her lip arch? How many inches span her waist?”