[CHAPTER VIII]
THE SAUCY SALLY
Monsieur Mornay and his companions made but a sorry spectacle upon the decks of the vessel aboard of which the hand of destiny had so fortuitously tumbled them. The Frenchman had lost his doublet, hat, and periwig, the blood flowed freely from a wound in his head, and his bowed figure was slim and lean in his clinging and dripping garments. The Irishman stood near, with one hand upon the Frenchman’s shoulder, watching him narrowly, fearful that in another mad moment he might throw himself overboard after his lost heritage. But Monsieur Mornay made no move to struggle further. He stood supine and subordinate to his fate. The light of battle which had so recently illumined them shone in his eyes no more. And the head which by the grace of God had been raised last night so that he could look every man level in the eyes was now sunk into his shoulders—not in humiliation or abasement, but in a silent acquiescence to the whelming sense of defeat that was his.
Cornbury, his red poll glowing a dull ember in the moonlight, stood by the side of his friend, erect, smiling—his usual inscrutable self. Presently, when a lantern had been brought, the man with the black beard came forward again and placed himself, arms akimbo, before the bedraggled figures of the fugitives. His voice was coarse and thick, like his face and body. As he leaned sideways to accommodate the squint of one eye and looked at them in high humor, an odor of garlic and brandy proclaimed itself so generously that even the rising breeze could not whip it away.
“Soho!” he said again. “Soho! soho!” while he swayed drunkenly from one foot to the other. “Queer fishin’ even for the Thames, mateys. Soho! If there be luck in hodd numbers, then ’ere’s the very luck o’ Danny McGraw, for of all the hoddities— Ho, Redhead, whither was ye bound? Newgate or Tyburn or the Tower? The Tower? Ye aren’t got much o’ the hair o’ prisoners o’ state.”
Cornbury looked him over coolly, and then, with a laugh, “Bedad, my dear man, we’d had a smell of all three, I’m thinking.”
By this time half the crew of the vessel were gathered in a leering and grinning circle.
“Pst!” said one; “’tis the Duke o’ York in dishguise.”
“The Duke o’ York,” said another. “Ai! yi! an’ the little one’s the Prince o’ Wales.”