“To wit,” said she, with a glass of wine
half-way to her lips.
“That the right person saves them from frizzling
to a cinder.”
She sipped her wine steadily, and then, leaning forward
till the radiance of her yellow hair made me quiver,
she whispered calmly, “Oliver, you’re a
brute.”
“Nay, madam,” said I, “only a yokel.”
She looked at me again as she had looked at me when
I had kissed her hand beneath the hawthorns.
“Hello, there,” broke in the Colonel,
addressing himself to me, “who was right about
the dog’s life?”
“I was, of course,” said Margaret promptly.
The host was rung for, his supper praised to his heart’s
content, the table cleared, and a dish of tea ordered
for Margaret. Bethinking me of the sergeant’s
tuck, which might be useful, I asked the host to bring
it up, and he did so.
When we were again left to ourselves, the Colonel
took the sword, and examined it with his skilful eyes
and practised hands.
“Somewhat heavy,” said he, “but
well balanced and well made, and of the truest steel.
Are you a swordsman, Master Wheatman?”
“I never had one in my hand in my life till
to-day,” was my reply.
“Gird him for the wars, Margaret,” said
he. “So much of the ancient rules and customs
of chivalry as can be observed in these mechanic days
shall, by us at any rate, be observed. In strict
law you ought to have spent a night in prayer and
fasting, but your loyal service to Margaret is a good
equivalent. To labour is to pray, say the parsons,
and, my lad, always remember in your soldiering that
a so-minded man can offer up a powerful prayer between
pull of trigger and flash of priming. Kneel, Oliver,
and in God’s sight you shall be more truly knighted
than any capering and chattering of German Geordie’s
can contrive.”
And so, in the guest-room of the “Rising Sun,”
I knelt to my sweet mistress, and, before God and
in the presence of Christopher Waynflete, Colonel
of Horse in the service of the King of Sweden, and
John Freake, citizen of London, Margaret, gravely
and serenely beautiful, touched my shoulder with the
sword and then girded it upon me.
“Sirs,” she said, addressing her father
and Master Freake, “the accolade has never been
given to a worthier.” Then, bending swiftly
as a swallow dips in its flight over the meadows,
she whispered emphatically in my ears, “Yokel
it no more!”
PHARAOH’S KINE
“And now to business,” said Master Freake.
“To pleasure, sir,” said the Colonel.
“Business is over.”
He was leisurely filling his pipe, an example which
Margaret, with a smile and a nod, gave me permission
to follow.
“Tell us how you escaped,” said Margaret.
“Master Wheatman cannot too soon begin to learn
the tricks of the trade. Sorry, dad,” bending
to kiss his hand; “you needn’t look at
me in German. I mean rudiments of the profession.”
