Suddenly from a little distance came the roll of drums. Other sounds began to stir in the night outside to tell of a waking army.
Feversham stood listening. “It is Dunbarton's,” he murmured. Then, with some show of heat, “Ah, pardieu!” he cried. “But it was a dirty t'ing t'is Monmoot' 'ave prepare'. It is murder; it is not t'e war.
“And yet,” said Wilding critically, “it is a little more like war than the Bridgwater affair to which your lordship gave your sanction.”
Feversham pursed his lips and considered the speaker. Wentworth reentered, followed by the Earl's valet carrying an armful of garments. His lordship threw off his dressing-gown and stood forth in shirt and breeches.
“Mais duche-toi, donc, Belmont!” said he. “Nous nous battons! Ii faut que je m'habille.” Belmont, a little wizened fellow who understood nothing of this topsy-turveydom, hastened forward, deposited his armful on the table, and selected a finely embroidered waistcoat, which he proceeded to hold for his master. Wriggling into it, Feversham rapped out his orders.
“Captain Wentwort', you will go to your regimen at once. But first, ah—wait. Take t'ose six men and Mistaire Wilding. 'Ave 'im shot at once; you onderstan', eh? Good. Allons, Belmont! my cravat.”
CHAPTER XXII. THE EXECUTION
Captain Wentworth clicked his heels together and saluted. Blake, in the background, drew a deep breath—unmistakably of satisfaction, and his eyes glittered. A muffled cry broke from Ruth, who rose instantly from her chair, her hand on her bosom. Richard stood with fallen jaw, amazed, a trifle troubled even, whilst Mr. Wilding started more in surprise than actual fear, and approached the table.
“You heard, sir,” said Captain Wentworth.