“My Lord Duke,” said Roger, grasping his friend’s hand in the darkness, “I think you the truest, most generous friend that ever lived. I will go with you to Orlamunde; and, after that, I will face the devil himself, if only in your company, for I am assured you fear him not!”
At the inn of Michot, the news had got abroad of the disbandment of the gentlemen-at-arms. It meant beggary to most of them; yet they met it as men of courage and adventure meet misfortune, boldly grasping it by the hand, as if it were an old acquaintance, and toasting it with drink and song. Afar off, as Berwick and Roger traversed the way down to the valley, they could hear a roaring chorus, and the thumping of tankards upon the table in the common room, from whose windows the red light gleamed. Since they could not fight the Whigs, they could at least abuse them, and shout in chorus their favorite song,—
“Ye Whigs are a rebellious lot,
The plague of our poor nation;
Ye give not God or Cæsar due,
You smell of reprobation.
Your Hogan Mogan foreign things,
God gave them in displeasure;
You’ve brought them o’er and made them Kings,
They’ve drained our blood and treasure.”