“I am sorry for it,” Buckingham rejoined; “but if he will retract what he has said, and express compunction, with promise of amendment in future, I will exert my influence to have him held harmless.”

“I will never retract what I have said against that iniquitous tribunal,” Jocelyn rejoined firmly.  “I will rather die a martyr, as my father did, in the cause of truth.”

“Your kindness is altogether thrown away upon him, my lord,” Sir Giles said, with secret satisfaction.

“So I perceive,” Buckingham rejoined.  “Our business is over,” he added, to the nobles and gallants around him; “so we may to our barges.  You, my lord,” he added to Lord Roos, “will doubtless tarry to receive the thanks of our pretty hostess.”

And graciously saluting Madame Bonaventure, he quitted the tavern accompanied by a large train, and entering his barge amid the acclamations of the spectators, was rowed towards Whitehall.

CHAPTER X.

The ’prentices and their leader.

While the Marquis of Buckingham and his suite were moving towards the wharf, amid the acclamations of the crowd (for in the early part of his brilliant career the haughty favourite was extremely popular with the multitude, probably owing to the princely largesses he was in the habit of distributing among them), a very different reception awaited those who succeeded him.  The hurrahs and other vociferations of delight and enthusiasm were changed into groans, hootings, and discordant yells, when Sir Francis Mitchell came in sight, supported between two stout myrmidons, and scarcely able to maintain his perpendicular as he was borne by them towards the wherry in waiting for him near the stairs.  Though the knight was escorted by Captain Bludder and his Alsatian bullies, several of the crowd did not seem disposed to confine themselves to jeers and derisive shouts, but menaced him with some rough usage.  Planting themselves in his path, they shook their fists in his face, with other gestures of defiance and indignity, and could only be removed by force.  Captain Bludder and his roaring blades assumed their fiercest looks, swore their loudest oaths, twisted their shaggy moustaches, and tapped their rapier-hilts; but they prudently forbore to draw their weapons, well knowing that the proceeding would be a signal for a brawl, and that the cry of “Clubs!” would be instantly raised.

Amongst the foremost of those who thus obstructed Sir Francis and his party was a young man with a lithe active figure, bright black eyes, full of liveliness and malice, an olive complexion, and a gipsy-like cast of countenance.  Attired in a tight-fitting brown frieze jerkin with stone buttons, and purple hose, his head was covered with a montero cap, with a cock’s feather stuck in it.  He was armed neither with sword nor dagger, but carried a large cudgel or club, the well-known and formidable weapon,