at the allusion to this action too, for his comrade of Wynendael, the Count of Nassau Woudenbourg, had been slain there.  Mr. Swift, when Esmond pledged him, said he drank no wine, and took his hat from the peg and went away, beckoning my Lord Bolingbroke to follow him; but the other bade him take his chariot and save his coach-hire—­he had to speak with Colonel Esmond; and when the rest of the company withdrew to cards, these two remained behind in the dark.

Bolingbroke always spoke freely when he had drunk freely.  His enemies could get any secret out of him in that condition; women were even employed to ply him, and take his words down.  I have heard that my Lord Stair, three years after, when the Secretary fled to France and became the Pretender’s Minister, got all the information he wanted by putting female spies over St. John in his cups.  He spoke freely now:—­“Jonathan knows nothing of this for certain, though he suspects it, and by George, Webb will take an Archbishopric, and Jonathan a—­no,—­damme—­Jonathan will take an Arch-bishopric from James, I warrant me, gladly enough.  Your Duke hath the string of the whole matter in his hand,” the Secretary went on.  “We have that which will force Marlborough to keep his distance, and he goes out of London in a fortnight.  Prior hath his business; he left me this morning, and mark me, Harry, should fate carry off our august, our beloved, our most gouty and plethoric Queen, and Defender of the Faith, la bonne cause triomphera.  A la sante de la bonne cause!  Everything good comes from France.  Wine comes from France; give us another bumper to the bonne cause.”  We drank it together.

“Will the bonne cause turn Protestant?” asked Mr. Esmond.

“No, hang it,” says the other, “he’ll defend our Faith as in duty bound, but he’ll stick by his own.  The Hind and the Panther shall run in the same car, by Jove.  Righteousness and peace shall kiss each other:  and we’ll have Father Massillon to walk down the aisle of St. Paul’s, cheek by jowl with Dr. Sacheverel.  Give us more wine; here’s a health to the bonne cause, kneeling—­damme, let’s drink it kneeling.”  He was quite flushed and wild with wine as he was talking.

“And suppose,” says Esmond, who always had this gloomy apprehension, “the bonne cause should give us up to the French, as his father and uncle did before him?”

“Give us up to the French!” starts up Bolingbroke; “is there any English gentleman that fears that?  You who have seen Blenheim and Ramillies, afraid of the French!  Your ancestors and mine, and brave old Webb’s yonder, have met them in a hundred fields, and our children will be ready to do the like.  Who’s he that wishes for more men from England?  My Cousin Westmoreland?  Give us up to the French, pshaw!”

“His uncle did,” says Mr. Esmond.