“Did you not also receive a young cavalier, called Louis Garnegey?” said Cromwell.
“I remember no such name, were I to hang for it,” said the knight. “Kerneguy, or some such word,” said the General; “we will not quarrel for a sound.”
“A Scotch lad, called Louis Kerneguy, was a guest of mine,” said Sir Henry, “and left me this morning for Dorsetshire.”
“So late!” exclaimed Cromwell, stamping with his foot—“How fate contrives to baffle us, even when she seems most favourable!—What direction did he take, old man?” continued Cromwell—“what horse did he ride—who went with him?”
“My son went with him,” replied the knight; “he brought him here as the son of a Scottish lord.—I pray you, sir, to be finished with these questions; for although I owe thee, as Will Shakspeare says,
Respect for thy great place, and let the devil
Be sometimes honoured for his burning throne,—
yet I feel my patience wearing thin.”
Cromwell here whispered to the corporal, who in turn uttered orders to two soldiers, who left the room. “Place the knight aside; we will now examine the servant damsel,” said the General.—“Dost them know,” said he to Phœbe, “of the presence of one Louis Kerneguy, calling himself a Scotch page, who came here a few days since?”
“Surely, sir,” she replied, “I cannot easily forget him; and I warrant no well-looking wench that comes into his way will be like to forget him either.”
“Aha,” said Cromwell, “sayst thou so? truly I believe the woman will prove the truer witness.—When did he leave this house?”