"Fie upon you, Reuben!" cried his mistress. "You have been drinking strong waters on an empty stomach, and your brain is confused."
"I have only drunk my customary pot of cider," he rejoined; "and my brain is clear enough to convince me that Charles Stuart is now in this house."
"What do I hear?" cried Dame Swan, putting the best face she could on the matter. "Out on thee, for a false knave! Dost want to injure my house by thy lies? There are none but gentlefolks here—men true to the Commonwealth. Go to the stable at once, and bring round the horses, or thou shalt quit my service."
"I do not design to remain in your service, misguided woman," he rejoined; "and I warn you not to let these malignants depart. I am now going to the Reverend Bartholomew Wesley, and will bring him back with me."
"A fig for thy minister!" she rejoined.
But as soon as he was gone she flew to the parlour in which Charles and the others were assembled, and informed them of the danger. On this, the whole party hastened to the stable.
Fortunately, Harry Peters had got the horses ready, so that in another minute they were all mounted—all, except Lord Wilmot, whose horse had not been brought back. Careless accompanied his lordship to the smithy.
As Dame Swan assisted Juliana to take her seat on the pillion behind, the king bade her adieu, and putting his arm round her neck, kissed her heartily.
He then rode off with his attendants towards Bridport, Lord Wilmot and Careless being left behind.
They had not been gone long, when a short, stout personage entered the inn, and greeted the hostess, though in rather a singular manner. He was arrayed in a black gown with Geneva bands, and a close-fitting black velvet skull-cap, that set off his ruddy visage. This was the Reverend Bartholomew Wesley, an ancestor we may remark of the renowned John Wesley. His countenance had a strange sarcastic expression, though he put on an air of mock respect.