“I know you,” replied Berwick, eagerly; “have you news for us?”
Roger shook his head.
“Truly,” he replied, “I was so taken up with my private wrongs and sorrows that I did not take the trouble I should to bring news to his Majesty. But when a man has been shut up three years in prison, and when he is turned out, as I was, and finds himself beholding his estate in the hands of his father’s bastard—”
“Come, my friend,” said Berwick, with a bright flush on his handsome face, “let not that word be used before me. Remember your manners.”
“’Tis hard to remember anything when a man has been so buffeted as I,” cried poor Roger, throwing his arms about. “I only know that I could not get to France fast enough, for there only could I find arms in my hands to drive this Dutch usurper out!”
To this Berwick replied dryly, “I fear it will be a little time yet before we shall find arms in our hands. But meanwhile mount, and let us be going.”
Roger mounted the servant’s horse, and with his portmanteau behind him made for the town with Berwick. Each scanned the other closely. Roger knew little of Berwick, beyond that he was the son of King James and Arabella Churchill, and Berwick knew nothing of Roger beyond his name and condition; but in some way they knew each other well before they reached the inn of Michot, where Berwick advised Roger to put up. The episode of the dead horse had well served to throw light upon the character of each.
Not since the day he had last sat at meat in his own house had life seemed so bright to Roger Egremont as it did when the cheerful glow from the windows of the inn came before him, and the sound of a rollicking chorus floated out. Berwick had explained the character of the place to him.
“And many of us, graceless dogs that we are, prefer this homely, cheerful inn to the palace,” he said, half smiling. “We have not the front to be gay in the presence of the King and Queen; we are cowards about spending our money when we see their Majesties practising all sorts of privations that their followers may eat. But here we can at least sing,—not that I do much as a singer, for my voice is like a crow with the quinsy,—and play for what loose coin we have, and talk about the merry days ahead of us in England; and they are the chief joys of those who have followed the King.”
By that time they had dismounted, their horses had been led away, and Berwick pulled open the great nail studded door of the common room. The light, although ruddy, was not dazzling. The chilly evening made good excuse for a fire,—so thought the guests of the inn; Madame Michot was of a different mind, but sighed and said nothing. Along one side of the room was a long table, around which half a dozen gentlemen were seated; the savory dishes thereon, and the delicious odor of spiced wine were like gales of Araby to Roger Egremont. About the fire sat several gentlemen, and there was a twanging of fiddle-strings among them and a fresh young voice soaring in a song.