“For gude sake!” said Mungo, terrified again at this mad lilting from a man who had anything but song upon his countenance.
“You're sure ye didnae see the letter?” asked the Chamberlain again.
“Amn't I tellin' ye?” said Mungo.
“It's a pity,” said the Chamberlain, staring at the lantern, with eyes that saw nothing. “In that case ye need not wonder that her ladyship inby should ken all, for I'm thinking it was a very informing bit letter, though the exact wording of it has slipped my recollection. It would be expecting over much of human nature to think that the foreigner would keep his hands out of the pouch of a coat he stole, and keep any secret he found there to himself. I'm saying, Mungo!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Somebody's got to sweat for this!”
There was so much venom in the utterance and such a frenzy in the eye, that Mungo started; before he could find a comment the Chamberlain was gone.
His horse was tethered to a thorn; he climbed wearily into the saddle and swept along the coast. At the hour of midnight his horse was stabled, and he himself was whistling in the rear of Petullo's house, a signal the woman there had thought never to hear again.
She responded in a joyful whisper from a window, and came down a few minutes later with her head in a capuchin hood.
“Oh, Sim! dear, is it you indeed? I could hardly believe my ears.”