Luiz Sebastian fixed his great eyes upon Landless. "If he calls my name," said the wicked brain behind the blandly smiling face, "shall I, or shall I not—? It is many minutes to moonrise yet."
But Landless did not call him. He passed him by as he had passed Trail, and named another rustic at some little distance from the mulatto, then a Fifth Monarchy man, then a veteran of Cromwell's, then the plantation miller and the carpenter, then two more Oliverians, then more peasants. Each man, as his name was called, stepped forward into the lengthening line that faced the master and his party, standing with pistols leveled and cocked; and each man bestowed upon Godfrey Landless a curse, or a look that was bitterer than a curse.
"Humfrey Elder!" called Landless.
The old butler shot from out the crowd, as though impelled from a catapult. "Your Honor!" he screamed, "the man as says I plot against a Verney, lies! I that fought with your Honor at Naseby! I that you brought from home with you when Mistress Patricia was a baby, and that has poured your wine from that day to this! I plot with these rapscallions and Roundheads! Your Honor, he lies in his throat!"
"Fall into line, Humfrey," said his master quietly; "I will hear you out later, but now, obey me."
The watchful eyes of Luiz Sebastian were growing very watchful indeed.
"Regulus!" cried Landless.
Under cover of a burst of protestation from Regulus, the Turk whispered to the mulatto, "By Allah! this is the slave you would not approach! You said he would die for his master."
"He is not of them," returned the other. "St. Jago! if I understand it! But what can it matter? The moon will rise in less than an hour."
"Dick Whittington!" cried Landless.