“It is the device of the Papist whore of Portsmouth,” said one.
“Of old Rowley himself,” said another.
“If he could be murdered by himself, why hang those that would hinder it!” exclaimed a third.
“He should be tried,” said a fourth, “for conspiring his own death, and hanged in terrorem.”
In the meanwhile, Sir Geoffrey, his son, and their little companion, left the hall, intending to go to Lady Peveril’s lodgings, which had been removed to Fleet Street. She had been relieved from considerable inconvenience, as Sir Geoffrey gave Julian hastily to understand, by an angel, in the shape of a young friend, and she now expected them doubtless with impatience. Humanity, and some indistinct idea of having unintentionally hurt the feelings of the poor dwarf, induced the honest Cavalier to ask this unprotected being to go with them. “He knew Lady Peveril’s lodgings were but small,” he said; “but it would be strange, if there was not some cupboard large enough to accommodate the little gentleman.”
The dwarf registered this well-meant remark in his mind, to be the subject of a proper explanation, along with the unhappy reminiscence of the trencher-hornpipe, whenever time should permit an argument of such nicety.
And thus they sallied from the hall, attracting general observation, both from the circumstances in which they had stood so lately, and from their resemblance, as a wag of the Inner Temple expressed it, to the three degrees of comparison, Large, Lesser, Least. But they had not passed far along the street, when Julian perceived that more malevolent passions than mere curiosity began to actuate the crowd which followed, and, as it were, dogged their motions.
“There go the Papist cut-throats, tantivy for Rome!” said one fellow.
“Tantivy to Whitehall, you mean!” said another.
“Ah! the bloodthirsty villains!” cried a woman: “Shame, one of them should be suffered to live, after poor Sir Edmondsbury’s cruel murder.”