“Come here, my dear!” said he, quite tenderly, smiling upon her.
She would have been afraid but for the manifest kindness of that dark commanding stranger; it was only shyness that kept her from obeying.
The Chamberlain rose and went over to the door and cried upon the landlord. “You will have a chopine of ale, Baldy,” said he to the old wreck; “sometimes it's all the difference between hell-fire and content, and—for God's sake buy the bairn a pair of boots!” As he spoke he slipped, by a motion studiously concealed from the company, some silver into the beggar's poke.
The ale came in, the beggar drank for a moment, the Chamberlain took the child upon his knee, his face made fine and noble by some sweet human sentiment, and he kissed her, ere she went, upon the brow.
For a space the sanctum sanctorum of the Boar's Head Inn was ill at ease. This sort of thing—so common in Sim MacTaggart,who made friends with every gangrel he met—was like a week-day sermon, and they considered the Sunday homilies of Dr. Macivor quite enough. They much preferred their Simon in his more common mood of wild devilry, and nobody knew it better than the gentleman himself.
“Oh, damn the lousy tribe of them!” cried he, beating his palm upon the table; “what's Long Davie the dempster thinking of to be letting such folk come scorning here?”
“I'll warrant they get more encouragement here than they do in Lorn,” said the Provost, shrewdly, for he had seen the glint of coin and knew his man. “You beat all, Factor! If I lived a hundred years, you would be more than I could fathom. Well, well, pass the bottle, and ye might have another skelp at yon tune if it's your pleasure.”
The Chamberlain most willingly complied: it was the easiest retort to the Provost's vague allusion.
He played the tune again; once more its conclusion baffled him, and as he tried a futile repetition Count Victor stood listening in the lobby of the Boar's Head Inn.