“Come along, the place is empty,” he said, and, picking up one of the cloak-bags, stepped briskly into the room so recently vacated by Mr. Jeremiah Filson. “Thank God for a decent-looking inn!” he added, heartily, tossing his cloak-bag into a corner and dropping into a chair, where he began to hum:
“‘Charlie is my darling,
My darling, my darling;
Char—’”
“Hush!” exclaimed his companion, who had followed with the other bag and closed the door. “Heaven’s sake, Charles, none of those songs!”
But Charles finished:
“‘—lie is my darling,—
The young Chevaleer,’”
and then answered, gaily: “Why not? We’re alone here?”
The face of the young man—the slender one, addressed by his comrade as Charles—was not only handsome, but pleasant and animated, being lighted by soft blue eyes. The nose was slightly aquiline, the other features regular. He wore his own hair; his old suit of blue velvet carried an appearance of faded elegance; his three-cornered hat still boasted some remnants of silver lace; he was in riding-boots, and a sword hung at his side.