coward.  This I shall tell to nobody but yourself—­Ha, ha, ha!—­because your friends know it already, and to your enemies you will never do any harm.  Fenwick, you are just sufficient of a fool to get yourself into a scrape, and sufficient of a knave to drag your friends in too, in the hopes of getting out yourself.  Sir William Parkyns and Sir John Friend, knights and gentlemen of good repute, with full purses and with empty heads, you are paving a golden road to the gallows.  Charnock, you are a butcher; but depend upon it, you were not made to slaughter any better beast than a bullock.  The rest of you, gentlemen, good night.  As for you, Porter, I wish you were out of this business.  You are too honest a man to be in it; but take care that you do not make a knave of yourself in trying to shake yourself free from a cloak that you should never have put on.”

It may easily be conceived that this speech was not particularly palatable to any of the parties present.  But Sir George Barkley was the only one who answered, and he only did it by a sneer.

“Oh! we know very well,” he said, “my good Colonel, that you can turn your coat as well as any man.  We have heard of certain visits to Kensington, and interviews with the usurper; and, doubtless, we shall soon see a long list of our names furnished by you, and stuck up against Whitehall.”

“He who insinuates a falsehood, sir,” replied Green, turning sharply upon him, “is worse than he who tells a lie, for a lie is a bolder sort of cowardice than a covered falsehood.  I have never been but once to Kensington in my life, and that was to see Bentinck, Lord Portland—­whom I did not see.  William of Nassau I have never spoken to in my life, and never seen, that I know of, except once through a pocket-glass, upon the banks of the Boyne.  All that you have said, sir, you know to be false; and as to my giving a list of your names, that you know to be false also.  What I may do to prevent evil actions I do not know, and shall hold it over your heads.  But of one thing you may be quite sure, that no man’s name would ever be compromised by me, however much he may deserve it.”

Thus saying, he turned upon his heel and quitted the room, still holding the pistol in his hand.  After closing the door, he paused for an instant and meditated, then thrust the pistol back into his belt, and walked along one of the many passages of the house, with the intricacies of which he seemed perfectly well acquainted.

The scene of dismay and confusion, however, which he left behind is almost indescribable.  Every person talked at once, some addressing the general number, not one of whom was attending; some speaking vehemently to another individual, who in turn was speaking as vehemently to some one else.  The great majority of those present, however, seemed perfectly convinced that their late companion would betray them, or, at all events, take such measures for frustrating their schemes, as to render it perilous in the extreme to proceed in them.  Sir John Friend was for giving it all up at once, and Parkyns seemed much of the same opinion.  Rookwood, Fenwick, and others hesitated, but evidently leaned to the safer course.