The stranger spoke. "Where is our prisoner?" he said in a low, clear voice. "I care not to meet him during my brief stay here."
Where had I heard that voice before? It sounded as familiar to me as my own. In London, surely, but I could not for my life remember whose it was. Could I but peer out from my hiding-place without detection, I would soon find out who the visitor was.
Carefully, very carefully, I drew aside a fold of the arras and looked out. There facing me and looking down at DeNortier, who sat opposite, a grin of pleasure upon his face, sat the Viscount James Henry Hampden. The same piercing gray eye, dark brown hair and pointed beard; the same nose and broad, wide mouth; the same cold, hard expression upon his face. As though he were at Lady Wiltshire's ball, instead of upon a wild island in the unknown Western seas, he sat there, gay and careless.
So this was the explanation that I had sought so long. He should pay dearly for this deed. I had a heavy reckoning against him, but it could wait for a while. Perhaps I would learn something of interest to me to-night.
Luckily this part of the room (I was in the furthest corner) was in the shadow, for the tapestry hung some six or eight inches from the wall, and I could move stealthily behind it without being seen from the room.
But the Count was speaking. "No fear of that, my Lord. I inquired from one of the servants as I came in, and he informed me that our prisoner had not returned from a long hunt. He is probably sleeping in the hut of some native to-night. Have no fear—he cannot hear of thy arrival."
And now he proceeded to fill one of the golden goblets with wine; pushing it toward Hampden, and filling another for himself, he said, "Let us drink a toast in this rare old wine. What shall it be? I await thy pleasure," and he rose to his feet and bowed.
The Viscount hesitated; for a moment he sat as if undecided. But the wine he had drunk before had mounted to his head, and he too arose to his feet and extended his glass.
"I give thee a toast!" he cried, his colorless cheek warming. "One for gods and men! Drink with me to the fairest of earth's mortals, as divinely beautiful and as innocent as an angel; one upon whose slightest word all London hangs—to the Lady Margaret Carroll!" And he drained the great golden goblet in a draught.
"The Lady Margaret Carroll!" rejoined the sea rover, lifting the goblet to his lips. "May she be the bride of the bravest gallant!" and he too drained his cup to the dregs.