Lawrence's face grew dark with vexation. Could anything be more tiresome and inopportune? The church clock struck eleven. A fearfully late hour for those good old times, when "early to bed, and early to rise" made everybody "so healthy, and wealthy, and wise."
"Master Alworth," said Lee gently, though he was biting his lip all the while with impatience. "Master Alworth, by your leave—I will bid you good-night."
A second and deeper snore was the response.
"And farewell," shouted Lee.
"Eyelids down; eyelids—down," murmured the sleeper.
How to save the King?
"Nay, but begone I must," muttered Lawrence, starting up and pushing back his chair, while his eyes despairingly contemplated his slumbering host, until suddenly a light flashed into them. "Let's see what a shake will do," he went on to himself, approaching Alworth's chair, and suiting his action to his words with no gentle hand. It produced no effect beyond an angry snort of remonstrance from the sleeper, who turned in his chair only to settle more comfortably. "What is to be done?" ejaculated Lawrence, casting desperate glances towards the door, as if he intended making a run for it. "Another half hour—a quarter, even, and—"
Something which fell with a faint jingle and a clash to the floor at his feet, interrupted his speculations. He stooped to pick it up.
It was Master Alworth's gold chain, whose elaborate fastening had apparently missed touching home in his drowsy attempts to clasp it.
"Adieu, then," he said, placing the chain noiselessly beside his host's plate, and wafting him a kiss from his finger-tips; "for I must be taking French leave, if you will not be having an English one," and he turned to escape noiselessly from the room.