It would be untrue to say Ellen was not dismayed by the bold soldier's attitude; her words belied her heart.
"Fear not, my pretty one; you are as pert as a finch—and I like you for it. Egad! I envy Ned his sweetheart. But we will leave you together to talk it out, or fight it out."
It was a dreadful moment for Ellen; close to her stood the Captain with an unrelenting and cruel eye on her; a short distance behind was old Bill, whose face betrayed no emotions whatever; lingering on the threshold was L'Estrange; he looked as if ashamed of the part he was playing, and Ellen, with her quick discernment, read hope only in his countenance, and thanked God inwardly it was with him and not the Captain she had to deal.
For a few moments the Captain only glared on his innocent victim.
Then he said, "Come along, Bill, let's leave the lovers."
"Get up your courage, Ned," he continued; "why, Lord bless me, you look as pale and frightened as if you were to be hung, instead of going to woo a fair lady."
"Let's away now," said old Bill.
So saying he turned to leave the room, whither the Captain followed him, saying to L'Estrange, as he left, "Egad! she is a fine creature; and, by Jove! I envy your luck. If you can't come round her, remember you have only to stamp your foot—we are below; and were she St. Agnes herself I will see if she escapes me."
He then disappeared behind the wainscoting by the secret door; the arras flapped behind him, shaken by the wind of the door shutting. He slowly descended the stairs, and entered a lower room, or rather, vault, where old Bill kennelled. An oil-lamp burned on the table, and shed a fitful light on the rough features of the old tar, and the soldierly but fierce-looking Captain, as they drank, and talked, and swore.
"Where the deuce has Antonia earthed herself?"