The sword was drawn in, and it remains a matter of doubt until this day, whether it was not called upon to exercise its functions against the last speaker. At least the noise of a considerable bustle was made, which ended in the door being opened; and Sir William, with the guards, was shewn into a room by a servant boy.
An hour had almost elapsed before the wig had been arranged, and the spectacles disposed on the frontispiece of the Mayor, so properly as to allow him to be seen. He entered with a slow step to convey notions of a solemn dignity, and a pretty strong calf was by no means a bad interpreter. After mounting the glasses on the higher regions of the head, he rubbed his eyes as hard as if they were flint, and as if he wished them to strike light, in order to enable him to see. His face was good-humoured, and had no more expression than a well-stuffed pudding. He then looked gravely upon Sir William, when the knight addressed him,
“Why am I brought here? I had no desire to be regaled with a breeze of thy far sounding nose,” (the mayor, be it observed, was snoring even then) “nor to behold thee in undress.”
The Mayor started at the sounds of the knight’s voice;
“Sir William Bradshaigh thou art. It was no ghost. I know thee well; and no wonder that thou pursued the Welsh knight. Where is he?”
Sir William slowly unsheathed his sword, all bloody.
“That is the best answer; is it not intelligible?”
The worthy Mayor held up his hands in nervous terror.
“Come up with me to my own apartment, Sir William. We must consult upon your safety. You will be outlawed for murder. Come, and allow me to introduce you to my lady. She wont frighten you as she does—.”
The look which accompanied the pause and omission well supplied the personal pronoun.