From his own lips I have since heard the cause of Mr. Bentinck's emotion. He had for many months endeavored to instil into his prince and master what he held to be a fitting and wholesome dread of the secret assassin. He had indeed in those days and during many years to come good reason enough for his own fears, yet none could he contrive to arouse in that most fearless of men that is now our most gracious sovereign; who, after some abortive attempt upon his person, or upon the news of some fresh and subtile plot discovered and prevented, would jest lightly of the matter, or turn aside from it with a few sharp words.
"As for assassins, William," he would say, "I hold it wholly beneath me to speak of them, and much more to give them serious thought."
Now, in this case, not only did Mr. Bentinck hope by means of this fat rascal to come at the source and instigation of the attempted crime, but also, through discoveries the captive should be compelled to make, to arouse in His Highness's mind a more sensible conviction of the dangers to which his careless magnanimity so frequently exposed his person. Successful, however, as Mr. Bentinck ultimately was in proving to his own satisfaction the guilt of greater persons than the shaking wretch before him, I have never heard that His Highness was prevailed upon by this or any other means to give one serious thought to perils of this nature.
"Bring him here," cried Mr. Bentinck very sharply to Kidd, who pushed his helpless prisoner forward until the light from the window fell upon his ill-favored countenance. "H'm—-h'm—h'm!" grunted Mr. Bentinck, as his eyes rose and fell between his paper of description and the face of the fellow that trembled and sweated before him. "H'm! But the red periwig is wanting."
Whereupon Prue whips out that tangled wig from beneath her apron, vowing she had found it in the straw where the fellow had slept.
"'T is enough," says Mr. Bentinck: then in a voice very terrible and sudden he cried to the culprit: "Your name is Francis."
"'T is not," stammered the poor wretch, "nor no such name." And his gaze went round the room very despairfully till it lighted upon Philip. "For the love of God, Mr. Philip Drayton," he cried, "tell them how I am called."
Philip regarded him with a disgust that he tried in vain to conceal.
"I have met you once," he said, "as James Marston, of Oxford."
"Did I not tell you?" said Francis, his face lighting with hope.