“Of course. We are all too busy up in Holborn to get the chance of so many shows that I should wish to miss one. Still, Master Peter is very wise, and I am always counselled to obey him. Also, it will soon be dark.”
“Well, well,” said Margaret with a sigh and a little shrug of her shoulders, “as you are both against me, perhaps we had best be going. Next time I come out walking, cousin Peter, it shall be with some one who is more kind.”
Then she turned and began to make her way as quickly as she could through the thickening crowd. Finding this difficult, before Peter could stop her, for she was very swift in her movements, Margaret bore to the right, entering the space immediately in front of the banqueting-hall where the grooms with horses and soldiers were assembled awaiting their lords, for here there was more room to walk. For a few moments Peter and Betty were unable to escape from the mob which closed in behind her, and thus it came about that Margaret found herself alone among these people, in the midst, indeed, of the guard of the Spanish ambassador de Ayala, men who were notorious for their lawlessness, for they reckoned upon their master’s privilege to protect them. Also, for the most part, they were just then more or less in liquor.
One of these fellows, a great, red-haired Scotchman, whom the priest-diplomatist had brought with him from that country, where he had also been ambassador, suddenly perceiving before him a woman who appeared to be young and pretty, determined to examine her more closely, and to this end made use of a rude stratagem. Pretending to stumble, he grasped at Margaret’s cloak as though to save himself, and with a wrench tore it open, revealing her beautiful face and graceful figure.
“A dove, comrades!—a dove!” he shouted in a voice thick with drink, “who has flown here to give me a kiss.” And, casting his long arms about her, he strove to draw her to him.
“A dove, comrades!—A dove!”
“Peter! Help me, Peter!” cried Margaret as she struggled fiercely in his grip.
“No, no, if you want a saint, my bonny lass,” said the drunken Scotchman, “Andrew is as good as Peter,” at which witticism those of the others who understood him laughed, for the man’s name was Andrew.