“I fear I did not much apply myself until I was a prisoner in Newgate gaol,” replied Roger, blushing very much.
They were standing close by an open window, and in spite of the mellow light of wax candles, the young moon shone in softly upon them.
“After all,” said Michelle, “one can only live in the open. I often wish to know how it feels to sleep in the woods and fields, to rise and mount at dawn, on a good horse, with arms by my side, and all the work I had to do that day to be done under God’s sun. In such a life I could live happy, and die with a quiet and joyful mind.”
“I know what it is to sleep at the sign of the Shining Stars,” said Roger. “I slept three nights, wrapped in my cloak, on the ground, when I was taken from Newgate. And though two of the nights I was blindfolded, I think I never slept more sweetly. The last night ’twas not so easy, for from where I lay I could see my home, in which a bastard and a villain lived and throve.”
Roger checked himself. “I forgot,” he said; “I did not mean to take my injuries to walk, as our French friends say; I only meant to say how well I loved the out-of-doors. You look too young, and too fair and slim for that life.”
“But I am not,” replied Michelle. She was in truth, very young and slight, but Roger saw, in the depths of her eyes, a gleam of adventure.
“Perhaps because I am half English, I like the woods and fields better than houses. When we make journeys I ride a-horseback with François to take care of me, and my footboy mounted. Poor François would often stop and rest, but I like to gallop on under the stars, and follow the road by night, and wonder what will come of it. When the King goes back to England I want to ride with him and see the people, some shouting and rejoicing, and some scowling at him, with murder in their hearts. And if the latter, I would go up to them, and plead so with them that they would be throwing up their hats for King James before the day was out.”
“And may it come to pass that I ride in the same rank with you,” said Roger, bowing low and smiling; but he scowled when she continued, somewhat unkindly,—
“The men at St. Germains are always talking; why are they not acting? They are very brave over their cups, you hear their songs denouncing the Prince of Orange resounding through half the night, but they will never be able to sing that usurper out of England; you will have to drub him out if ever you get him out at all.”
“Madam,” said Roger, with the extreme politeness with which he always cloaked his anger toward women,—for love does not preclude anger by any means, and is rather its concomitant,—“you forget that I am one of those men at St. Germains whom you revile.”