At this, to my relief, I thought I could perceive a vestige of a smile to steal upon that iron countenance and to be bitten immediately in.
“And if it is a fair question, what do they call ye?” she asked.
“At your service, the Vicomte Anne de Saint-Yves,” said I.
“Mosha the Viscount,” said she, “I am afraid you do us plain people a great deal too much honour.”
“My dear lady,” said I, “let us be serious for a moment. What was I to do? Where was I to go? And how can you be angry with these benevolent children who took pity on one so unfortunate as myself? Your humble servant is no such terrific adventurer that you should come out against him with horse-pistol and”—smiling—“bedroom-candlesticks. It is but a young gentleman in extreme distress, hunted upon every side, and asking no more than to escape from his pursuers. I know your character, I read it in your face”—the heart trembled in my body as I said these daring words. “There are unhappy English prisoners in France at this day, perhaps at this hour. Perhaps at this hour they kneel as I do; they take the hand of her that might conceal and assist them; they press it to their lips as I do——”
“Here, here!” cried the old lady, breaking from my solicitations. “Behave yourself before folk! Saw ever any one the match of that? And on earth, my dears, what are we to do with him?”
“Pack him off, my dear lady,” said I: “pack off the impudent fellow double-quick! And if it may be, and if your good heart allows it, help him a little on the way he has to go.”
“What’s this pie?” she cried stridently. “Where is this pie from, Flora?”
No answer was vouchsafed by my unfortunate and (I may say) extinct accomplices.
“Is that my port?” she pursued. “Hough! Will somebody give me a glass of my port wine?”