She called Malcolm. He was beside her ere his name had left her lips. The boy’s reply had irritated her, and, coming upon this sudden and utter change in her circumstances, made her feel as one no longer lady of herself and her people, but a prisoner.
“Once more, what does this mean, Malcolm?” she said, in high displeasure. “You have deceived me shamefully! You left me to believe we were on our way back to London—and here we are out at sea! Am I no longer your mistress? Am I a child, to be taken where you please?—And what, pray, is to become of the horses you left at Mr Lenorme’s?”
Malcolm was glad of a question he was prepared to answer.
“They are in their own stalls by this time, my lady. I took care of that.”
“Then it was all a trick to carry me off against my will!” she cried, with growing indignation.
“Hardly against your will, my lady,” said Malcolm, embarrassed and thoughtful, in a tone deprecating and apologetic.
“Utterly against my will!” insisted Florimel. “Could I ever have consented to go to sea with a boatful of men, and not a woman on board? You have disgraced me, Malcolm.”
Between anger and annoyance she was on the point of crying.
“It’s not so bad as that, my lady.—Here, Rose!”
At his word, Rose appeared.