“She shall share it!” rejoined the Royal reprobate, in reckless, but determined tone, his wicked passions fired by the wine he had been drinking. “And we go that way, Colonel. So see that all be ready for the route soon as the moon shows her sweet face. Meanwhile, let us back to our comrades and be merry.”
Saying which he returned to the chair he had vacated at the head of the table, the other along with him; then, grasping a filled goblet, he called out the Cavalier’s orthodox sentiment “The Wenches!” adding,—
“Colonel Lunsford will respond with a song, gentlemen!”
Which the Colonel did; giving that they liked best, with a chorus they could all join in,—
“We’ll drink, drink;
And our goblets clink,
Quaffing the blood-red wine.
The wenches we’ll toast,
And the Roundheads we’ll roast,
The Croppies and all their kind.”
The coarse refrain, with the ribald jests that followed it, could be heard all over the house, reaching the ears of its imprisoned owner. Even those of his daughters, more distant, did not escape being offended by them. No wonder at both having in their hearts, if not on their lips, the prayer,—“God speed Win upon her errand!”