The man’s face changed as quickly as Punchinello’s in the show.
His master uttered no word of resentment; Roger had spoken in English, and the horseman responded in the same tongue, which was plainly his native language.
“Sir,” he said, “if you are subject to these gusts of rage, you will often find yourself in trouble. Nevertheless, I think you excusable just now. I had no mind to laugh, I assure you.”
At the first word Roger Egremont recognized that no ordinary man was speaking. The music of the stranger’s voice, his tall and graceful figure were obvious; his face was long and pale. Roger could see no more. But to hear once again the English tongue was sweet, and to know that here was a man who understood grief for the loss of a dumb creature was grateful. Roger recovered himself, and replied calmly:
“He was the gift of a very humble man, who could ill spare him, and he bore me faithfully until his strength gave out,—and he was the last living thing I owned from my country.”
“England?”
“Yes. He was not really worth bringing across the water, but I could not leave him behind.”
“If you will do me the honor,” said the stranger, “to accept of my servant’s horse, it is entirely at your service; and my man can take your saddle where you wish in the town, as I presume you are bound there. Permit me to introduce myself. I am the Duke of Berwick.”
Instead of warmly reaching out to take the hand that Berwick extended, Roger hesitated a moment. He hated bastards so—having good cause—that he hated the King’s bastard. However, he did offer his hand and replied,—
“And I am Mr. Egremont, of Egremont, but late from Newgate prison.”