In the midst of her reverie, the tapestry at the door was again pushed back, cautiously this time, then eagerly. There entered the prettiest spark that ever graced a kingdom or trod a measure.

It was Nell, accoutred as a youth; and a bold play truly she was making. Her face revealed that she herself was none too sure of the outcome.

"By my troth," she thought, as she glanced uncomfortably about the great room, "I feel as though I were all breeches." She shivered. "It is such a little way through these braveries to me."

Her eyes turned involuntarily to the corner where Portsmouth sat, now dreaming of far-off France.

"The Duchess!" her lips breathed, almost aloud, in her excitement. "So you'd play hostess to his Majesty," she thought, "give a royal ball and leave poor Nelly home, would you?"

The Duchess was conscious only of a presence.

"Garcon!" she called, without looking up.

Nell jumped a foot.

"That shook me to the boots," she ejaculated, softly.

"Garcon!" again called the impatient Duchess.

"Madame," answered Nell, fearfully, the words seeming to stick in her fair throat, as she hastily removed her hat and bethought her that she must have a care or she would lose her head as well, by forgetting that she was an Irishman with a brogue.

"Who are you?" asked Portsmouth, haughtily, as, rising, with surprised eyes, she became aware of the presence of a stranger.

Indeed, it is not strange that she was surprised. The youth who stood before her was dressed from top to toe in gray—the silver-gray which lends a colour to the cheek and piquancy to the form. The dress was of the latest cut. The hat had the longest plume. The cloak hung gracefully save where the glistening sword broke its falling lines. The boots were neat, well rounded and well cut, encasing a jaunty leg. The dress was edged with silver.

Ah, the strange youth was a love, indeed, with his bright, sparkling eyes, his lips radiant with smiles, his curls falling to his shoulders.

"Well," stammered Nell, in awkward hesitation but in the richest brogue, as the Duchess repeated her inquiry, "I'm just I, madame."

The Duchess smiled despite herself.

"You're just you," she said. "That's very clear."

"Yes, that's very clear," reiterated Nell, still fearful of her ground.

"A modest masker, possibly," suggested Portsmouth, observing the youth's embarrassment and wishing to assist him.

"Yea, very modest," replied Nell, her speech still stumbling, "almost ashamed."

Portsmouth's eyes looked sharply at her.

"She suspects me," thought Nell, and her heart leaped into her throat. "I am lost—boots and all."

"Your name?" demanded the Duchess again, impatiently.

For the life of her Nell could not think of it.

"You see," she replied evasively, "I'm in London for the first time in my present self, madame, and—"

"Your name and mission, sir?" The tone was imperative.

Nell's wits returned to her.

"Beau Adair is my name," she stammered, "and your service my mission."

It was out, though it had like to have choked her, and Nell was more herself again. The worst she had feared was that the Duchess might discover her identity and so turn the tables and make her the laughing-stock at court. She grew, indeed, quite hopeful as she observed a kindly smile play upon the Duchess's lips and caught the observation: "Beau Adair! A pretty name, and quite a pretty fellow."

A smile of self-satisfaction and a low bow were Nell's reply.

"Vain coxcomb!" cried Portsmouth, reprovingly, though she was highly amused and even pleased with the strange youth's conceit.

"Nay; if I admire not myself," wistfully suggested Nell, in reply, with pretence of much modesty, "who will praise poor me in this great palace?"

"You are new at court?" asked Portsmouth, doubtingly.

"Quite new," asserted Nell, gaining confidence with each speech. "My London tailor made a man of me only to-day."

"A man of you only to-day!" cried the Duchess, in wonderment.

"He assured me, madame," Nell hastened to explain, "that the fashion makes the man. He did not like my former fashion. It hid too much that was good, he said. I am the bearer of this letter to the great Duchess of Portsmouth; that you are she, I know by your royalty."

She bowed with a jaunty, boyish bow, sweeping the floor with her plumed hat, as she offered the letter.

"Oh, you are the gentleman," said Portsmouth, recalling her request to Buckingham, which for the instant had quite escaped her. She took the letter and broke the seal eagerly.

"She does not suspect," thought Nell; and she crossed quickly to the curtained arch, leading to the music and the dancing, in the hope that she might see the King.

Portsmouth, who was absorbed in the letter, did not observe her.

"From Rochet! Dear Rochet!" mused the Duchess, as she read aloud the lines: "'The bearer of this letter is a young gallant, very modest and very little versed in the sins of court.'"

"Very little," muttered Nell, with a mischievous wink, still intent upon the whereabouts and doings of the King.

"'He is of excellent birth,'" continued the Duchess, reading, "'brave, young and to be trusted—to be trusted. I commend him to your kindness, protection and service, during his stay in town.'"

She reflected a moment intently upon the letter, then looked up quickly. Nell returned, somewhat confused, to her side.

"This is a very strong letter, sir," said Portsmouth, with an inquiring look.

"Yes, very strong," promptly acquiesced Nell; and she chuckled as she recalled that she had written it herself, taking near a fortnight in the composition. Her fingers ached at the memory.

"Where did you leave Rochet?" inquired the Duchess, almost incredulously.

"Leave Rochet?" thought Nell, aghast. "I knew she would ask me something like that."

There was a moment's awkwardness—Nell was on difficult ground. She feared lest she might make a misstep which would reveal her identity. The Duchess grew impatient. Finally, Nell mustered courage and made a bold play for it, as ever true to her brogue.

"Where did I leave Rochet?" she said, as if she had but then realized the Duchess's meaning, then boldly answered: "In Cork."

"In Cork!" cried Portsmouth, in blank surprise. "I thought his mission took him to Dublin." She eyed the youth closely and wondered if he really knew the mission.

"Nay; Cork!" firmly repeated Nell; for she dared not retract, lest she awaken suspicion. "I am quite sure it was Cork I left him in."

"Quite sure?" exclaimed the Duchess, her astonishment increasing with each confused reply.

"Well, you see, Duchess," said Nell, "we had an adventure. It was dark; and we were more solicitous to know whither the way than whence."

The Duchess broke into a merry laugh. The youth had captured her, with his wistful, Irish eyes, his brogue and his roguish ways.

"We give a ball to-night," she said, gaily. "You shall stay and see the King."

"The King!" cried Nell, feigning fright. "I should tremble so to see the King."

"You need not fear," laughed the hostess. "He will not know you."

"I trust not, truly," sighed Nell, with much meaning, as she scanned her scanty masculine attire.

"Take my mask," said the Duchess, graciously. "As hostess, I cannot wear it."

Nell seized it eagerly. She would be safe with this little band of black across her eyes. Even the King would not know her.

"I shall feel more comfortable behind this," she said, naively.

"Did you ever mask?" inquired Portsmouth, gaily.

"Nay, I am too honest to deceive," answered Nell; and her eyes grew so round and so big, who would not believe her?

"But you are at court now," laughed the Duchess, patronizingly. "Masking is the first sin at court."

"Then I'll begin with the first sin," said Nell, slyly, raising the Duchess's fingers to her lips, "and run the gamut."

They passed together into the great ball-room, Nell exercising all her arts of fascination—and they were many. The music ceased as they entered. The dancers, and more especially the ladies, eyed curiously the jaunty figure of the new-comer. There were merry whisperings among them.

"Who can he be?" asked one, eagerly. "What a pretty fellow!" exclaimed a second, in admiration. "I've been eying him," said a third, complacently.

The men too caught the infection.

"Who can he be?" inquired Rochester.

"Marry, I'll find out," said Lady Hamilton, with an air of confidence, having recovered by this time from the kisses which had been thrust upon her and being now ready for a new flirtation.

She approached Adair, artfully, and inquired: "Who art thou, my butterfly? Tell me now, e'er I die." Her attitude was a credit to the extremes of euphuism.

There was general laughter at her presumptuous and effete pose and phrase.

The ladies had gathered about the new hero, like bees about new clover. The gallants stood, or sat as wall-flowers in a row, deserted. The King too had been abandoned for the lion of the hour and sat disconsolate.

"Peace, jealous ones!" cried Lady Hamilton, reprovingly, then continued, with a winning way: "I know thou art Apollo himself, good sir."

Nell smiled complacently, though she felt her mask, to assure herself that it was firm.

"Apollo, truly," she said, jauntily, "if thou art his lyre, sweet lady."

Lady Hamilton turned to the Duchess.

"Oh, your grace," she asked, languishingly, "tell us in a breath, tell us, who is this dainty beau of the ball?"

"How am I to know my guests," answered Portsmouth, feigning innocence, "with their vizors down? Nay, sweet sir, unmask and please the ladies. I'faith, who art thou?"

The hostess was delighted. The popularity of the new-comer was lending a unique novelty to her entertainment. She was well pleased that she had detained Monsieur Adair. She thought she saw a jealous look in the King's usually carelessly indifferent gaze when she encouraged the affectionate glances of the Irish youth.

"I'faith," laughed Nell, in reply, "I know not, Duchess."

"D'ye hear?" said Portsmouth. "He knows not himself."

"But I have a suspicion, Duchess," sighed Nell.

"Hark ye," laughed Portsmouth, with a very pretty pout, "he has a suspicion, ladies."

"Nay, you will tell?" protested Nell, as the ladies gathered closer about her in eager expectation.

There was a unison of voices to the contrary.

"Trust us, fair sir," said one. "Oh, we are good at keeping secrets."

"Then, 'twixt you and me, I am—" began Nell; and she hesitated, teasingly.

The group about grew more eager, more wild with curiosity.

"Yes, yes—" they exclaimed together.

"I am," said Nell, "the Pied Piper of Hamlin Town."

"The rat-catcher," cried Portsmouth. "Oh, oh, oh!"

There was a lifting of skirts, revealing many high-born insteps, and a scramble for chairs, as the ladies reflected upon the long lines of rats in the train of the mesmeric Pied Piper.

"Flee, flee!" screamed Lady Hamilton, playfully. "He may pipe us into the mountains after the children."

"You fill me with laughter, ladies," said Portsmouth to her guests. "The man does not live who can entrap me."

"The woman does," thought Nell, as, mock-heroically, she placed near her lips a reed-pipe which she had snatched from a musician in the midst of the fun; and, whistling a merry tune which the pipe took no part in, she circled about the room, making quite a wizard's exit.

The ladies, heart and soul in the fun, fell into line and followed, as if spell-bound by the magic of the Piper.

Charles, James, Rochester and the gallants, who remained, each of whom had been in turn deserted by his fair lady, unmasked and looked at one another in wonderment. Of one accord, they burst into a peal of laughter.

"Sublime audacity," exclaimed Charles. "Who is this curled darling—this ball-room Adonis? Ods-pitikins, we are in the sear and yellow leaf."

"Truly, Sire," said James, dryly, "I myself prefer a gathering of men only."

"Brother James," forthwith importuned the King, waggishly, "will you favour me with your lily-white hand for the next dance? I am driven to extremity."

"Pardon, Sire," replied James, quite humorously for him, "I am engaged to a handsomer man."

"Odsfish," laughed Charles, "King Charles of England a wall-flower. Come, Rochester, my epitaph."

The King threw himself into a chair, in an attitude of hopeless resignation, quite delicious.

Rochester perked up with the conceit and humour of the situation. With the utmost dignity, and with the quizzical, pinched brow of the labouring muse, halting at each line, he said:

"Here lies our sovereign lord, the King, Whose word no man relies on; Who never said a foolish thing, And never did a wise one!"

The post-mortem verse was sufficiently subtle and clever to revive the King's drooping spirits; and he joined heartily in the applause.

"The matter," he said, approvingly, "is easily accounted for—my discourse is my own, my actions are my Ministry's."

There was a frou-frou of petticoats. The hostess entered gaily.

"The King! The courtiers! Unmasked!" she exclaimed, in coy reproof. "Fy, fy, your Majesty! For shame! Gallants! Are you children that I must pair you off?"

"We are seeking consolation," suggested Charles, dryly; "for modest souls have small chance to-night, Louise."

He nodded significantly in the direction of the great ball-room, where the chatter of women's voices betokened the unrivalled popularity of Nell.

"When did you turn modest, Sire?" slyly inquired Portsmouth, with a look of love.

"When I was out-stripped in audacity by yon Hibernian youth," replied the King, seriously. "Who is this peacock you are introducing?"

A peal of laughter from without punctuated the King's speech. It was the reward of a wit-thrust from Nell.

"The Piper the maids would now unmask?" queried Portsmouth, rapturously. "Marry, 'tis the fascinating Beau Adair of Cork, entertaining the ladies. Oh, he is a love, Sire; he does not sulk in corners. See! See!"

She pointed toward the archway, through which Nell was plainly visible. She was strutting jauntily back and forth upon the promenade. It is unnecessary to say that she was escorted by the assembled fair ones.

As Nell caught the eye of the hostess in the distance, she gaily tossed a kiss to her.

"'Sdeath, that I were a woman to hope for one of his languishing smiles," observed Buckingham.

"Even the old hens run at his call," sneered the pious James, in discontent; for he too had been deserted by his ladylove and even before the others.

The King looked at his brother with an air of bantering seriousness, to the delight of all assembled.

"Brother James is jealous of the old ones only," he observed. "You know his favourites are given him by his priests for penance."

A merry ripple ran through the group.

The hostess took advantage of the King's speech to make a point.

"And you are jealous of the young ones only," she said, slyly, quickly adding as a bid for jealousy: "Pooh, pooh! Le Beau had letters to me, Sire. Nay, we do not love him very much. We have not as yet had time."

"Alas, alas," sighed Charles, with drooping countenance, "that it should come to this."

"My liege, I protest—" cried Portsmouth, hastily, fearful lest she might have gone too far. "To-night is the first I ever saw the youth. I adore you, Sire."

"Not a word!" commanded Charles, with mock-heroic mien. He waved his hand imperatively to his followers. "Friends," he continued, "we will mix masks and dominoes and to't again to drown our sorrow."

"In the Thames?" inquired James, facetiously for him.

"Tush! In the punch-bowl, pious brother!" protested the Merry Monarch, with great dignity. "You know, a very little water will drown even a king."

The gallants mixed masks and dominoes in obedience to the royal wish. The King, sighing deeply, cast a hopeless glance at Portsmouth, not without its tinge of humour. He then sauntered slowly toward the windows of the great ball-room, followed subserviently by all the courtiers, save Buckingham, who was lost in converse with player Hart.

"Hark ye," suddenly broke off Buckingham, observing the approach of Adair and his adorers, "here come again the merry maskers. By Bacchus, the little bantam still reigns supreme. The King and his gallants in tears. Let us join the mourners, Master Hart."

As the Duke and the player, the former assuming a fraternal air for an end of his own, joined the royal group, Nell re-entered gaily, every inch the man. She was still surrounded by the ladies, who, fluttering, flattering and chattering, hung upon her every word. With one hand she toyed with her mask, which she had good-naturedly dropped as none were about who knew her. She clapped it, however, quickly to her eyes at sight of the King.

"You overwhelm me, my fair ones," she said, with spirit, as she held court in the centre of the room. "I assure you, I am not used to such attention—from the ladies."

"Our hospitality is beggarly to your deserts," sighed Portsmouth, who had joined the bevy, but loud enough for the King to hear.

"You quite o'erpower me, Duchess," answered Nell, modestly, adding for the satisfaction of her own sense of humour: "No wonder we men are fools, if you women talk like this."

While she was speaking, Lady Hamilton whispered facetiously in Portsmouth's ear.

"Beau Adair married!" exclaimed the Duchess, in response. "It cannot be. He looks too gay for a married man."

"No confidences, my pretty ones," observed Nell, reprovingly.

The hostess hesitated; then she out with it in a merry strain.

"Lady Hamilton asks after the wife you left at home."

"My wife!" cried Nell, in astonishment; for this phase of her masquerading had not presented itself to her before. "Great Heavens, I have no wife—I assure you, ladies!"

"So?" observed Portsmouth, her curiosity awakened. "Modest—for a bachelor."

"A bachelor!" exclaimed Nell, now fully en rapport with the spirit of the situation. "Well,—not exactly a bachelor either,—ladies."

"Alack-a-day," sighed Lady Hamilton, with a knowing glance at her companions, "neither a bachelor nor a married man!"

"Well, you see—" explained Nell, adroitly, "that might seem a trifle queer, but—I'm in mourning—deeply in mourning, ladies."

She drew a kerchief from her dress and feigned bitter tears.

"A widower!" tittered Lady Hamilton, heartlessly. "Our united congratulations, sir."

The other ladies one by one sobbed with affected sympathy, wiping their eyes tenderly, however, lest they might remove the rich colour from their cheeks.

"Mesdames," said Nell, reprovingly, "the memory is sacred. Believe me, very sacred."

She fell apparently once again to weeping bitterly.

"The memory is always sacred—with men," observed Portsmouth, for the benefit of her guests, not excepting the Irish youth. "Nay, tell us the name of the fair one who left you so young. My heart goes out to you, dear Beau."

"Kind hostess," replied Nell, assuming her tenderest tones, "the name of my departed self is—Nell!"

Hart caught the word. The player was standing near, reflecting on the scene and on the honeyed words of the Duke of Buckingham, who was preparing the way that he might use him.

"Nell!" he muttered. "Who spoke that name?"

The hostess too was startled.

"Nell!" she exclaimed, with contending emotions. "Strange! Another cavalier who graces mon bal masque to-night has lost a loved one whose name is Nell. Ah, but she was unworthy of his noble love."

She spoke pointedly at the masked King, who started perceptibly.

"Yes," he thought; for his conscience smote him, "unworthy—he of her."

"Unworthy, truly, if he dances so soon and his own Nell dead," added Nell, reflectively, but so that all might hear, more especially Charles.

"Perchance Nell too thinks so," thought he, as he restlessly walked away, sighing: "I wish I were with her on the terrace."

"'Sdeath, Duchess," continued Nell abruptly, in assumed horror at the sudden thought, "the lady's spirit may visit the ball, to the confusion of us all. Such things have been."

"The Nell I mean," said Portsmouth, with a confident smile, "will not venture here, e'en in spirit."

Nell assumed a baby-innocence of face.

"She has not been bidden, I presume?" she queried.

"The vixen would not stop for asking," declared Portsmouth, almost fiercely.

"Come without asking?" cried Nell, as if she could not believe that there could be such people upon the earth. "How ill-bred! Thine ear, loved one. My Nell revisits the world again at midnight. The rendezvous—St. James's Park."

Hart brushed close enough to the group, in his biting curiosity, to catch her half-whisper to Portsmouth. He at once sought a window and fresh air, chafing with surprise and indignation at what he had overheard.

"St. James's at midnight," he muttered. "'Tis my Nell's abode."

The Duchess herself stood stunned at what appeared to her a possible revelation of great import.

"St. James's!" she thought. "Can he mean Madame Gwyn? No, no!"

The look of suspicion which for an instant had clouded her face changed to one of merriment, under Adair's magic glance.

"And you would desert me for such a fleshless sprite?" she asked.

"Not so," said Nell, with a winning look; "but, when my better-half returns to life, I surely cannot refuse an interview—especially an she come from afar."

Nell's eyes arose with an expression of sadness, while her finger pointed down—ward in the direction of what she deemed the probable abode of her departed "Nell." Her lips twitched in merriment, however, despite her efforts to the contrary; and the hostess fell a-laughing.

"Ladies," she cried, as she appealed to one and all, "is not le Beau a delight—so different from ordinary men?"

"I am not an ordinary man, I assure you," Nell hastened to declare.

This assertion was acquiesced in by a buzz of pretty compliments from the entire bevy of ladies. "Positively charming!" exclaimed one. "A perfect love!" said another.

Nell listened resignedly.

"'Sheart," she said, at length, with an air of ennui, "I cannot help it. 'Tis all part of being a man, you know."

"Would that all men were like you, le Beau!" sighed the hostess, not forgetting to glance at the King, who again sat disconsolate, in the midst of his attendant courtiers, drawn up, as in line of battle, against the wall.

"Heaven help us if they were!" slyly suggested Nell.

Rochester, who had been watching the scene in his mischievous, artistic way, drew from Portsmouth's compliment to Adair another meaning. He was a mixture 'twixt a man of arts and letters and Satan's own—a man after the King's own heart. Turning to the King, with no desire to appease the mischief done, he said, banteringly:

"Egad, there's a rap at you, Sire. France would make you jealous."

The Duke of Buckingham too, though he appeared asleep, had seen it all.

"And succeeds, methinks," he reflected, glancing approvingly in the direction of the Irish youth. "A good ally, i'faith."

Nell, indeed, was using all her arts of fascination to ingratiate herself with the Duchess, and making progress, too.

"Your eyes are glorious, fair hostess," she said, in her most gallant love-tones, "did I not see my rival in them."

She could not, however, look at Portsmouth for laughter, as she thought: "I believe lying goes with the breeches; I never was so proficient before."

The compliment aroused the King's sluggish nature.

"I can endure no more, gallants," cried he, with some pretence of anger, rising abruptly, followed, of course, in each move and grimace by his courtier-apes, in their desire to please. "Are we to be out-done in our own realm by this usurper with a brogue? Ha! The fiddlers! Madame, I claim the honour of this fair hand for the dance."

At the sound of the music, he had stepped gallantly forward, taking the hostess's hand.

"My thanks, gallant masker," replied the Duchess, pretending not to know him for flattery's sake, "but I am—"

To her surprise, she had no opportunity to complete the sentence.

"Engaged! Engaged!" interposed Nell, coming unceremoniously between them, with swaggering assumption and an eye-shot at the King through the portal of her mask. "Forsooth, some other time, strange sir."

The hostess stood horrified.

"Pardon, Sir Masker," she hastened to explain; "but the dance was pledged—"

"No apologies, Duchess," replied the King, as he turned away, carelessly, with the reflection: "All's one to me at this assemblage."

He crossed the room, turning an instant to look, with a humorous, quizzical glance, at Portsmouth. Nell mistook the glance for a jealous one and, perking up quickly, caught the royal eye with a challenging eye, tapping her sword-hilt meaningly. Had the masks been off, the situation would have differed. As it was, the King smiled indifferently. The episode did not affect him further than to touch his sense of humour. Nell turned triumphantly to her partner.

"Odsbud," she exclaimed, with a delicious, youthful swagger, "we may have to measure swords in your behalf, dear hostess. I trow the fellow loves you."

"Have a care," whispered the Duchess, nervously. "It is the King."

"What care I for a king?" saucily replied Nell, with a finger-snap. She had taken good care, however, to speak very low. "My arm, my arm, Duchess!" she continued, with a gallant step. "Places, places; or the music will outstrip us."

"Strut on, my pretty bantam," thought Buckingham, whose eyes lost little that might be turned to his own advantage; "I like you well."

There was no mending things at this stage by an apology. The Duchess, therefore, tactfully turned the affair into one of mirth, in which she was quickly joined by her guests. With a merry laugh, she took the Irish gallant's proffered arm, and together they led the dance. The King picked a lady indifferently from among the maskers.

It was a graceful old English measure. Nell's roguish wits, as well as her feet, kept pace with the music. She assured her partner that she had never loved a woman in all her life before and followed this with a hundred merry jests and sallies, keyed to the merry fiddles, so full of blarney that all were set a-laughing. Anon, the gallants drew their swords and crossed them in the air, while the ladies tiptoed in and out. Nell's blade touched the King's blade. When all was ended the swords saluted with a knightly flourish, then tapped the floor.

There was an exultant laugh from one and all, and the dance was done.

Nell hastened to her partner's side. She caught the Duchess's hand and kissed it.

"You dance divinely, your grace," she said. "A goddess on tiptoe."

"Oh, Beau Adair!" replied the Duchess, courtseying low; and her eyes showed that she was not wholly displeased at the warmth of his youthful adoration.

"Oh, Duchess!" said Nell, fondly, acknowledging the salute.

The Duchess hastened to join his Majesty and together they threaded their way through many groups.

Nell tossed her head.

"How I love her!" she muttered, veiling the sarcasm under her breath.

She crossed the great room, her head erect. Her confidence was quite restored. This had been the most difficult bit of acting she had ever done; and how well it had been done!

The other dancers in twos and threes passed from the room in search of quiet corners, in which to whisper nothings.

Nell's eyes fell upon Strings, who had had a slight turn for the better in the world and who now, in a dress of somewhat substantial green, was one of the fiddlers at the Duchess's ball.

"How now, sirrah!" she said, sharply, as she planted herself firmly before him to his complete surprise. "I knew you were here."

She placed one of her feet in a devil-may-care fashion upon a convenient chair in manly contempt of its upholstery and peeped amusedly through her mask at her old friend. He looked at her in blank amazement.

"Gads-bobbs," he exclaimed, in confusion, "the Irish gentleman knows me!"

"There's nothing like your old fiddle, Strings," continued Nell, still playing with delight upon his consternation. "It fills me with forty dancing devils. If you were to play at my wake, I would pick up my shroud, and dance my way into Paradise."

"Your lordship has danced to my fiddling before?" he gasped, in utter amazement.

"Danced!" gleefully cried Nell. "I have followed your bow through a thousand jigs. To the devil with these court-steps. I'm for a jig, jig, jig, jig, jig! Oh, I'm for a jig! Tune up, tune up, comrade; and we'll have a touch of the old days at the King's House."

"The King's House! Jigs!" exclaimed the fiddler, now beside himself.

"Jigs!" chuckled Nell. "Jigs are my line of business."

_Oranges, will you have my oranges?

Sweet as love-lips, dearest mine, Picked by Spanish maids divine,—_

The room had now quite cleared; and, protected by a friendly alcove, Nell punctuated the old song with a few happily turned jig-steps. Strings looked at her a moment in bewilderment: then his face grew warm with smiles; the mystery was explained.

"Mistress Nell, as I live," he cried, joyously, "turned boy!"

"The devil fly away with you, you old idiot! Boy, indeed!" replied Nell, indignantly. "I'm a full-grown widower!"

She had removed her mask and was dancing about Strings gleefully.

There was the sound of returning voices.

"Oons, you will be discovered," exclaimed Strings, cautiously.

"Marry, I forgot," whispered Nell, glancing over her shoulder. "You may have to help me out o' this scrape, Strings, before the night is done."

"You can count on me, Mistress Nell, with life," he replied, earnestly.

"I believe you!" said Nell, in her sympathetic, hearty way. Her mind reverted to the old days when Strings and she were at the King's. "Oh, for just one jig with no petticoats to hinder."

Nell, despite herself, had fallen into an old-time jig, with much gusto, for her heart was for a frolic always, when Strings, seized her arm in consternation, pointing through the archway.

"The King!" she exclaimed.

She clapped her mask to her eyes and near tumbled through the nearest arras out of the room in her eagerness to escape, dragging her ever-faithful comrade with her.



CHAPTER XIII

For the glory of England?

The King Entered the Room With Hishistoric stride. His brow was clouded; but it was all humorous pretence, for trifles were not wont to weigh heavily upon his Majesty. With him came Portsmouth.

"Can you forgive me, Sire?" she asked. "I had promised the dance to Beau Adair. I did not know you, Sire; you masked so cleverly."

"'Sdeath, fair flatterer!" replied the King. "I have lived too long to worry o'er the freaks of women."

"The youth knew not to whom he spoke," still pleaded Portsmouth. "His introduction here bespeaks his pardon, Sire."

The King looked sardonic, but his laugh had a human ring.

"He is too pretty to kill," he declared, dramatically. "We'll forgive him for your sake. And now good night."

"So soon?" asked Portsmouth, anxiously.

"It is late," he replied.

"Not while the King is here," she sighed. "Night comes only when he departs."

"Your words are sweet," said Charles, thoughtfully observing her.

She sighed again.

"My thoughts stumble in your speech," she said. "I regret I have not English blood within my veins."

"And why?"

"The King would trust and love me then. He does not now. I am French and powerless to do him good."

There was a touch of honest sadness in her speech which awakened the King's sympathy.

"Nay," he said hastily, to comfort her; "'tis thy fancy. Thy entertainment hath made me grateful—to Louis and Louise."

"Think not of Louis and Louise," she said, sadly and reproachfully, "but of thy dear self and England's glory. For shame! Ah, Sire, my childhood-dreams were of sunny France, where I was born; at Versailles—at Fontainebleau among the monarch trees—my early womanhood sighed for love. France gave me all but that. It came not till I saw the English King!"

The siren of the Nile never looked more bewitchingly beautiful than this siren of France as she half reclined upon the couch, playing upon the King's heart with a bit of memory. His great nature realized her sorrow and encompassed it.

"And am I not good to thee, child?" he asked. He took her hand and responded to her eyes, though not with the tenderness of love—the tenderness for which she sought.

"You are good to none," she replied, bitterly; "for you are not good to Charles."

"You speak enigmas," he said, curious.

"Have you forgotten your promise?" she asked, naively.

"Nay; the passport, pretty one?" he answered, amused at the woman's wiles. "All this subterfuge of words for that! There; rest in peace. Thy friend hath a path to France at will."

He smiled kindly as he took the passport from his girdle, handed it to her and turned to take his leave.

"My thanks are yours. Stay, Sire," she said, hastily; for her mission was not yet complete and the night was now well gone. "Passports are trifles. Will you not leave the Dutch to Louis and his army? Think!"

She placed her arms about his neck and looked enticingly into his eyes.

"But," he replied, kindly, "my people demand that I intervene and stay my brother Louis's aggressive hand."

"Are the people king?" she asked, with coy insinuation. "Do they know best for England's good? Nay, Sire, for your good and theirs, I beseech, no more royal sympathy for Holland. I speak to avoid entanglements for King Charles and to make his reign the greater. I love you, Sire." She fell upon her knee. "I speak for the glory of England."

His Majesty was influenced by her beauty and her arts,—what man would not be?—but more by the sense of what she said.

"For the glory of England?" he asked himself. "True, my people are wrong. 'Tis better we remain aloof. No wars!"

He took the seat by the table, which the Duchess offered him, and scanned casually the parchment which she handed to him.

Nell peered between the curtains. Strings was close behind her.

"Bouillon's signature for France," mused the King. "'Tis well! No more sympathy for the Dutch, Louise, until Holland sends a beauty to our court to outshine France's ambassador."

He looked at Portsmouth, smiled and signed the instrument, which had been prepared, as he thought, in accordance with his wishes and directions. He then carelessly tossed the sand over the signature to blot it.

The fair Duchess's eyes revealed all the things which all the adjectives of all the lands ever meant.

"Holland may outshine in beauty, Sire," she said, kneeling by the King's side, "but not in sacrifice and love." She kissed his hand fervently.

He sat complacently looking into her eyes, scarce mindful of her insinuating arts of love. He was fascinated with her, it is true; but it was with her beauty, flattery and sophistry, not her heart.

"I believe thou dost love England and her people's good," he said, finally. "Thy words art wise."

Portsmouth leaned fondly over his shoulder.

"One more request," she said, with modest mien, "a very little one, Sire."

The King laughed buoyantly.

"Nay, an I stay here," he said, "thy beauty will win my kingdom! What is thy little wish, sweet sovereign?"

"No more Parliaments in England, Sire," she said, softly.

"What, woman!" he exclaimed, rising, half-aghast, half-humorous, at the suggestion; for he too had an opinion of Parliament.

"To cross the sway of thy great royal state-craft," she continued, quickly following up the advantage which her woman's wit taught her she had gained. "The people's sufferings from taxation spring from Parliament only, Sire."

"'Tis true," agreed Charles, decisively.

Portsmouth half embraced him.

"For the people's good, Sire," she urged, "for my sweetest kiss."

"You are mad," said Charles, yet three-fourths convinced; "my people—"

"Will be richer for my kiss," the Duchess interrupted, wooingly, "and their King, by divine right and heritage, will rule untrammelled by country clowns, court knaves and foolish lords, who now make up a silly Parliament. With such a King, England will be better with no Parliament to hinder. Think, Sire, think!"

"I have thought of this before," said Charles, who had often found Parliament troublesome and, therefore, useless. "The taxes will be less and contention saved."

"Why hesitate then?" she asked. "This hour's as good for a good deed as any."

"For England's sake?" reflected Charles, inquiringly, as he took the second parchment from her hands. "Heaven direct my judgment for my people's good. I sign."

The treaties which Louis XIV. of France had sent the artful beauty to procure lay signed upon her desk.

Nell almost pulled the portieres from their hangings in her excitement.

"I must see those papers," she thought. "There's no good brewing."

Portsmouth threw her arms about the King and kissed him passionately.

"Now, indeed, has England a great King," she said, adding to herself: "And that King Louis's slave!"

Charles smiled and took his leave. As he passed through the portal, he wiped his lips, good-humouredly muttering: "Portsmouth's kisses and Nell's do not mix well."

Portsmouth listened for a moment to his departing footsteps, then dropped into the chair by the table and hastily folded and addressed the papers.

Her mission was ended!



CHAPTER XIV

He loves me! He loves me!

Nell, half draped in the arras, had seen the kiss in reality bestowed by Portsmouth but as she thought bestowed by the King. As his Majesty departed through the door at the opposite end of the room, the colour came and went in her cheeks. She could scarce breathe.

Portsmouth sat unconscious of all but her own grand achievement. She had accomplished what shrewd statesmen had failed to bring about; and this would be appreciated, she well knew, by Louis.

"'Sdeath!" muttered Nell to herself, hotly, as, with quite a knightly bearing, she approached the Duchess. "He kisses her before my very eyes! He kisses her! I'll kill the minx!" She half unsheathed her blade. "Pshaw! No! No! I am too gallant to kill the sex. I'll do the very manly act and simply break her heart. Aye, that is true bravery in breeches."

Her manner changed.

"Your grace!" she said suavely.

"Yes," answered Portsmouth, her eyes still gleaming triumphantly.

"It seems you are partial of your favours?"

"Yes."

"Such a gift from lips less fair," continued Nell, all in wooing vein, "would make a beggar royal."

The hostess was touched with the phrasing of the compliment. She smiled.

"You would be pleased to think me fair?" she coyly asked, with the air of one convinced that it could not well be otherwise.

"Fairer than yon false gallant thinks you," cried Nell, with an angry toss of the head in the direction of the departed King. "Charles's kiss upon her lips?" she thought. "'Tis mine, and I will have it."

In the twinkling of an eye, she threw both arms wildly about the neck of the astonished hostess and kissed her forcefully upon the lips. Then, with a ringing laugh, tinged with triumph, she stepped back, assuming a defiant air.

The Duchess paled with anger. She rose quickly and, turning on the pretty youth, exclaimed: "Sir, what do you mean?"

"Tilly-vally!" replied the naughty Nell, in her most winning way. "A frown upon that alabaster brow, a pout upon those rosy lips; and all for nothing!"

"Parbleu!" exclaimed the indignant Duchess. "Your impudence is outrageous, sir! We will dispense with your company. Good night!"

"Ods-pitikins!" swaggered Nell, feigning umbrage. "Angry because I kissed you! You have no right, madame, to be angry."

"No right?" asked Portsmouth, her feelings tempered by surprise.

"No right," repeated Nell, firmly. "It is I who should be outraged at your anger."

"Explain, sir," said the Duchess, haughtily.

Nell stepped toward the lady, and, assuming her most tender tone, with wistful, loving eyes, declared:

"Because your grace can have no appreciation of what my temptation was to kiss you."

The Duchess's countenance glowed with delight, despite herself.

"I'faith, was there a temptation?" she asked, quite mollified.

"An overwhelming passion," cried Nell, following up her advantage.

"And you were disappointed, sir?" asked Portsmouth suggestively, her vanity falling captive to the sweet cajolery.

"I only got yon courtier's kiss," saucily pouted Nell, "so lately bestowed on you."

"Do you know whose kiss that was?" inquired the Duchess.

"It seemed familiar," answered Nell, dryly.

"The King's," said Portsmouth, proudly.

"The King's!" cried Nell, opening wide her eyes. "Take back your kiss. I would not have it."

"Indeed!" said Portsmouth, smiling.

"'Tis too volatile," charged Nell, decisively. "'Tis here, 'tis there, 'tis everywhere bestowed. Each rosy tavern-wench with a pretty ankle commands it halt. A kiss is the gift of God, the emblem of true love. Take back the King's kiss; I do not wish it."

"He does not love the King," thought Portsmouth, ever on the lookout for advantage. "A possible ally!"

She turned upon the youth, with humorous, mocking lip, and said reprovingly: "A kiss is a kiss the world over, fair sir; and the King's kisses are sacred to Portsmouth's lips."

"Zounds," replied Nell, with a wicked wink, "not two hours since, he bestowed a kiss on Eleanor Gwyn—"

"Nell Gwyn!" cried the Duchess, interrupting; and she started violently.

"With oaths, mountains high," continued Nell, with pleasurable harshness, "that his lips were only for her."

The Duchess stood speechless, quivering from top to toe.

Nell herself swaggered carelessly across the room, muttering mischievously, as she watched the Duchess from the corner of her eye: "Methinks that speech went home."

"He kissed her in your presence?" gasped Portsmouth, anxiously following her.

"I was not far off, dear Duchess," was the quizzical reply.

"You saw the kiss?"

"No," answered Nell, dryly, and she could scarce contain her merriment. "I—I—felt the shock."

Before she had finished the sentence, the King appeared in the doorway. His troubled spirit had led him to return, to speak further with the Duchess regarding the purport of the treaties. He had the good of his people at heart, and he was not a little anxious in mind lest he had been over-hasty in signing such weighty articles without a more careful reading. He stopped short as he beheld, to his surprise, the Irish spark Adair in earnest converse with his hostess.

"I hate Nell Gwyn," he overheard the Duchess say.

"Is't possible?" interrogated Nell, with wondering eyes.

The King caught this utterance as well.

"In a passion over Nelly?" reflected he. "I'd sooner face Cromwell's soldiers at Boscobel! All hail the oak!"

His Majesty's eye saw with a welcome the spreading branches of the monarch of the forest, outlined on the tapestry; and, with a sigh of relief, he glided quickly behind it and, joining a group of maskers, passed into an anteroom, quite out of ear-shot.

"Most strange!" continued Nell, wonderingly. "Nell told me but yesterday that Portsmouth was charming company—but a small eater."

"'Tis false," cried the Duchess, and her brow clouded at the unpleasant memory of the meeting at Ye Blue Boar. "I never met the swearing orange-wench."

"Ods-pitikins!" acquiesced Nell, woefully. "Nell's oaths are bad enough for men."

"Masculine creature!" spitefully ejaculated the Duchess.

"Verily, quite masculine—of late," said Nell, demurely, giving a significant tug at her boot-top.

"A vulgar player," continued the indignant Duchess, "loves every lover who wears gold lace and tosses coins."

"Nay; 'tis false!" denied Nell, sharply.

The Duchess looked up, surprised.

Nell was all obeisance in an instant.

"Pardon, dear hostess, a thousand pardons," she prayed; "but I have some reason to know you misjudge Mistress Nell. With all her myriad faults, she never loved but one."

"You seem solicitous for her good name, dear Beau?" suggested Portsmouth, suspiciously.

"I am solicitous for the name of all good women," promptly explained Nell, who was rarely caught a-napping, "or I would be unworthy of their sex—I mean their friendship."

The Duchess seemed satisfied with the explanation.

"Dear Beau, what do the cavaliers see in that horrid creature?" archly asked the Duchess, contemptuous of this liking of the stronger sex.

"Alack-a-day, we men, you know," replied Nell, boastfully, "well—the best of us make mistakes in women."

"Are you mistaken?" questioned Portsmouth, coyly.

"What?" laughed Nell, in high amusement. "I love Nelly? Nay, Duchess," and her voice grew tender, "I adore but one!"

"And she?" asked the hostess, encouraging the youth's apparently awakening passion.

"How can you ask?" said Nell, with a deep sigh, looking adoringly into Portsmouth's eyes and almost embracing her.

"Do you not fear?" inquired Portsmouth, well pleased.

"Fear what?" questioned Nell.

"My wrath," said Portsmouth.

"Nay, more, thy love!" sighed Nell, meaningly, assuming a true lover's dejected visage.

"My love!" cried Portsmouth, curiously.

"Aye," again sighed Nell, more deeply still; "for it is hopeless."

"Try," said the Duchess, almost resting her head upon Nell's shoulder.

"I am doing my best," said Nell, her eyes dancing through wistful lashes, as she embraced in earnest the Duchess's graceful figure and held it close.

"Do you find it hopeless?" asked Portsmouth, returning the embrace.

"Until you trust me," replied Nell, sadly. She shook her curls, then fondly pleaded: "Give me the secrets of your brain and heart, and then I'll know you love me."

The hostess smiled and withdrew from the embrace. Nell stood the picture of forlorn and hopeless love.

"Nay," laughed Portsmouth, consolingly, "they would sink a ship."

"One would not," still pleaded Nell, determined at all odds to have the packet.

"One!" The Duchess's eyes fell unconsciously upon the papers which she had bewitched from the King and which lay so near her heart. She started first with fear; and then her countenance assumed a thoughtful cast.

There was no time now for delay. The papers must be sent immediately. The King might return and retract. Many a battle, she knew, had been lost after it had been won.

That night, at the Rainbow Tavern, well out of reach of the town, of court spies and gossips, Louis would have a trusted one in waiting. His commission was to receive news from various points and transmit it secretly to France. It was a ride of but a few hours to him.

She had purposed to send the packet by her messenger in waiting; but he had rendered her suspicious by his speech and action in the late afternoon, and she questioned whether she would be wise in trusting him. Nor was she willing to risk her triumph in the hands of Buckingham's courier. It was too dear to her.

Indeed, she was clever enough to know that state-secrets are often safer in the custody of a disinterested stranger than in the hands of a friend, especially if the stranger be truly a stranger to the court.

She glanced quickly in the direction of Nell, who looked the ideal of daring youth, innocent, honest and true to the death.

"Why not?" she thought quickly, as she reflected again upon Rochet's words, "to be trusted." "Of Irish descent, no love for the King, young, brave, no court ties; none will suspect or stay him."

Her woman's intuition said "yes." She turned upon Nell and asked, not without agitation in her voice:

"Can I trust you?"

Nell's sword was out in an instant, glistening in the light, and so promptly that the Duchess started. Nell saluted, fell upon one knee and said, with all the exuberance of audacious, loving youth:

"My sword and life are yours."

Portsmouth looked deeply into Nell's honest eyes. She was convinced.

"This little packet," said she, in subdued tones, summoning Nell to her side, "a family matter merely, must reach the Rainbow Tavern, on the Canterbury Road, by sunrise, where one is waiting. You'll find his description on the packet."

Nell sheathed her sword.

"I know the place and road," she said, earnestly, as she took the papers from the Duchess's hand and placed them carefully in her doublet.

A rustle of the curtains indicated that some one had returned and was listening by the arras.

"Hush!" cautioned Portsmouth. "Be true, and you will win my love."

Nell did not reply, save to the glance that accompanied the words. Snatching her hat from a chair on which she had tossed it, she started eagerly in the direction of the great stairs that led to the hallway below, where, an hour since, she had been at first refused admission to the palace. Could she but pass again the guards, all would be well; and surely there was now no cause for her detention. Yet her heart beat tumultuously—faster even than when she presented herself with Rochet's letter written by herself.

As she was hastening by the arras, her quick eye, however, recognized the King's long plume behind it; and she halted in her course. She was alert with a thousand maddening thoughts crowding her brain, all in an instant.

"The King returned—an eavesdropper!" she reflected. "Jealous of Portsmouth; his eyes follow her. Where are his vows to Nell? I'll defame Nell's name, drag her fair honour in the mire; so, Charles, we'll test your manliness and love."

She recrossed the room quickly to Portsmouth.

"Madame," she exclaimed, in crisp, nervous tones, loud enough for the King's ear, "I have been deceiving, lying to you. I stood here, praising, honouring Eleanor Gwyn—an apple rotten to the core!"

"How now?" ejaculated Charles, in an undertone.

His carelessness vanished upon the instant. Where he had waited for the single ear of Portsmouth, he became at once an earnest listener.

Nell paused not.

"I had a friend who told me he loved Nell. I loved that friend. God knows I loved him."

"Yes, yes!" urged Portsmouth, with eagerness.

"A man of noble name and princely mien," continued Nell, so standing that the words went, like arrows, straight to the King's ear and heart, "a man of honour, who would have died fighting for Nell's honour—"

"Misled youth," muttered Portsmouth.

Nell seemed not to hear the words.

"Who, had he heard a murmur of disapproval, a shadow cast upon her name, would have sealed in death the presumptuous lips which uttered it."

"She betrayed his confidence?" asked Portsmouth, breathlessly.

"Betrayed—and worse!" gesticulated Nell, with the visage of a madman. "A woman base, without a spark of kindliness—an adventuress! This is the picture of that Eleanor Gwyn! Where is a champion to take up the gauntlet for such a Nell?"

As quick as light, the King threw back the arras and came between them. The Duchess saw him and cried out in surprise. Nell did not turn—only caught a chair-top to save herself from falling.

"Here, thou defamer!" he called, his voice husky with passion. "Thou base purveyor of lies, answer me—me, for those words! I am Nell's champion! I'll force you to own your slander a lie."

The King was terribly in earnest.

"The guard! The guard!" called Portsmouth, faintly, almost overcome by the scene. In her passion that the King so revealed his love for Nell, she quite forgot that Adair was the bearer of her packet.

"I want no guard," commanded the King. "An insult to Nell Gwyn is my cause alone."

Nell was in an elysium of ecstasy. She realized nothing, saw nothing.

"He loves me! He loves me!" her trembling lips breathed only. "He'll fight for Nell."

"Come; draw and defend yourself," angrily cried the King.

Portsmouth screamed and fell upon his arm.

It is doubtful what the result would otherwise have been. True, Nell ofttimes had fenced with the King and knew his wrist, but she was no swordswoman now. Though she took up in her delirium the King's challenge with a wild cry, "Aye, draw and defend yourself!" she realized nothing but his confession of love for Nell.

The scene was like a great blur before her eyes.

She rushed upon the King and by him, she scarce knew how. Their swords harmlessly clashed; that was all.

The cries had been taken up without.

"The guard! The guard!" "Treason!" "Treason!"

The air was alive with voices.

Nell ran up the steps leading to a French window, which opened upon a tiny railed balcony. Below, one story only, lay a soft carpet of greensward, shimmering in the moonlight. With her sword, she struck the frail sash, which instantly yielded.

Meantime, the room had filled with courtiers, guards and gallants, who had rushed in, sword and spear in hand, to guard the King.

As the glass shivered and flew wide, under the point of Nell's blade, all eyes turned toward her and all blades quivered threateningly in the air.

Buckingham was first to ascend the steps in pursuit. He was disarmed—more through the superiority of Nell's position than through the dexterity of her wrist.

Then for the first time, she realized her danger. Her eyes staring from their sockets, she drew back from her murderous pursuers, and, in startled accents, she knew not why, screamed in supplication, with hands uplifted:

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!"

The storm was stayed. All paused to hear what the stranger-youth would say. Would he apologize or would he surrender?

The suspense was for but a second, though it seemed an eternity to Nell.

The open window was behind.

With a parting glance at the trembling blades, she turned quickly and with reckless daring leaped the balcony.

"T' hell with ye!" was wafted back in a rich brogue defiantly by the night.

Astonishment and consternation filled the room; but the bird had flown. Some said that the wicked farewell-speech had been Adair's, and some said not.

How it all happened, no one could tell, unless it was a miracle.



CHAPTER XV

I come, my love; I come.

One lonely candle, or to speak more strictly a bit of one, sputtered in its silver socket in the cosy drawing-room; and a single moonbeam found its way in through the draperies of the window leading to the terrace and to St. James's Park.

Moll lay upon a couch asleep; but it was a restless sleep.

The voice of a town-crier resounded faintly across the park: "Midnight; and all is well."

She started up and rubbed her eyes in a bewildered way.

"The midnight crier!" she thought; and there was a troubled expression in her face. "I have been asleep and the candle's nearly out."

She jumped to her feet and hastily lighted two or three of its more substantial mates, of which there was an abundance in the rich candelabra about the room.

A cricket in a crevice startled her. She ran to the window and looked anxiously out upon the park, then hastened to the door, with equal anxiety, lest it might be unlocked. Every shadow was to her feverish fancy a spirit of evil or of death.

"I wish Nell would come," she thought. "The ghosts and skeletons fairly swarm in this old house at midnight; and I am all alone to-night. It's different when Nell's about. The goblins are afraid of her merry laugh. Boo! I am cold all over. I am afraid to stand still, and I am afraid to move."

She ran again to the window and this time pulled it open. The moonlight instantly flooded the room, dimming the candles which she had lighted. She saw her shadow, and started back in horror.

"Some one glided behind the old oak in the park," she cried aloud, for the company of her voice. "Oh, oh! Nell will be murdered! I begged her not to go to Portsmouth's ball. She said she just wanted to peep in and pay her respects to the hostess. Moll! You better pray."

She fell upon her knees and reverently lifted her hands and eyes in prayer.

Something fell in the room with a heavy thud. She shut her eyes tight and prayed harder. The object of her fear was a long gray boot, which had been thrown in at the window and had fallen harmlessly by her side. It was followed in an instant by its mate, equally harmless yet equally dreadful.

A jaunty figure, assisted by a friendly shoulder, then bounded over the balustrade and rested with a sigh of relief just within the window-opening. It was Nell, returning from the wars; she was pale, almost death-like. The evening's excitement, her daring escapade and more especially its exciting finish had taken hold of her in earnest. Her dainty little self was paying the penalty. She was all of a tremble.

"Safe home at last!" she cried wearily. "Heaven reward you, Strings."

From below the terrace, without the window, responded the fiddler, in sympathetic, loving tones: "Good night, Mistress Nell; and good sleep."

"Good night, comrade," answered Nell, as she almost fell into the room, calling faintly: "Moll! Moll! What are you doing, Moll?"

Moll closed her eyes tighter and prayed still more fervently.

"Praying for Nell," her trembling lips mechanically replied.

"Humph!" cried Nell, half fainting, throwing herself upon the couch. "There's no spirit in this flesh worth praying for. Some wine, some wine; and the blessing after."

The command brought Moll to her senses and she realized that it was really Nell who had entered thus unceremoniously. She rushed to her for safety, like a frightened deer to the lake.

"Nell, dear Nell!" she cried. "You are ill."

"Wine, wine, I say," again fell in peremptory tones from the half-reclining Nell.

Moll glanced in dismay at her bootless mistress: her garments all awry; her sword ill sheathed; her cloak uncaught from the shoulder and half used, petticoat-like, as a covering for her trembling-limbs; her hair dishevelled; her cheeks pale; her wild eyes, excitement-strained, staring from their sockets.

"You are wounded; you are going to die," she cried. "Moll will be all alone in the world again."

Her hands shook more than Nell's as she filled a glass half full of wine and passed it to her mistress.

"To the brim, girl, to the brim," commanded Nell, reviving at the prospect of the draught. "There!"

She tossed off the drink in gallant fashion: "I tell you, sweetheart, we men need lots of stimulating."

"You are all of a tremble," continued Moll.

"Little wonder!" sighed Nell. "These braveries are a trifle chilly, sweet mouse. Boo!" She laughed hysterically, while Moll closed the window. "You see, I never was a man before, and I had all that lost time to make up—acres of oats to scatter in one little night. Open my throat; I cannot breathe. Take off my sword. The wars are done, I hope." She startled Moll, who was encasing her mistress's pretty feet in a pair of dainty shoes, with another wild, hilarious laugh. "Moll," she continued, "I was the gayest mad-cap there. The sex were wild for me. I knew their weak points of attack, lass. If I had been seeking a mate, I could have made my market of them all and started a harem."

She seemed to forget all her dangers past in the recollection.

"Wicked girl," said Moll, pouting reprovingly.

"Oh, I am a jolly roisterer, little one," laughed Nell, in reply, as with cavalier-strides she crossed the room. She threw herself upon the table and proceeded to boast of her doings for Moll's benefit, swinging her feet meanwhile. "I ran the gamut. I had all the paces of the truest cavalier. I could tread a measure, swear like one from the wars, crook my elbow, lie, gamble, fight—Fight? Did I say fight?"

She hid her curly head in her hands and sobbed spasmodically.

"You have been in danger!" exclaimed Moll, fearfully.

"Danger!" repeated Nell, breaking out afresh. "I taught the King a lesson he will dream about, my sweet, though it near cost me my life. He loves me, d'ye hear; he loves me, pretty one! Dance, Moll, dance—Dance, I say! I could fly for very joy!"

With the tears still wet upon her cheeks, she seized Moll by both hands and whirled the astonished girl wildly about the room, until she herself reeled for want of breath. Then, catching at a great carved oaken chair, she fell into it and cried and laughed alternately.

"Nell, Nell," gasped Moll, as she too struggled for breath; "one minute you laugh and then you cry. Have you lost your wits?"

"I only know," exulted Nell, "I made him swear his love for Nell to Portsmouth's face. I made him draw his sword for Nell."

"Great Heavens!" exclaimed Moll, aghast. "You did not draw yourself? A sword against the King is treason."

"Ods-bodikins, I know not!" answered Nell. "I know not what I did or said. I was mad, mad! All I remember is: there was a big noise—a million spears and blunderbusses turned upon poor me! Gad! I made a pretty target, girl."

"A million spears and blunderbusses!" echoed Moll, her eyes like saucers.

"An army, child, an army!" continued Nell, in half-frantic accents. "I did not stop to count them. Then, next I knew, I was in my coach, with dear old Strings beside me. The horses flew. We alighted at the Chapel, tiptoed about several corners to break the scent; then I took off my shoes and stole up the back way like a good and faithful husband. Oh, I did the whole thing in cavalier-style, sweetheart. But,'twixt us, Moll," and she spoke with a mysterious, confidential air,"—I wouldn't have it go further for worlds—Adair is a coward, a monstrous coward! He ran!"

As if to prove the truth of her words, at a sudden, sharp, shrill sound from the direction of the park, the sad remnant of Adair clutched Moll frantically; and both girls huddled together with startled faces and bated breaths.

"Hark! What is that?" whispered Nell.

"The men, perchance, I told you of," answered Moll; "they've spied about the house for weeks."

"Nonsense, you little goose," remonstrated Nell, though none too bravely; "some of your ex-lovers nailing their bleeding hearts to the trees."

"No, no; listen!" exclaimed Moll, frantically, as the noise grew louder. "They're in the entry."

"In the entry!" stammered Nell; and she almost collapsed at the thought of more adventures. "I wish we were in bed, with our heads under the sheet."

"Here is your sword," said Moll, as she brought Nell the sharp weapon, held well at arm's length for fear of it.

"Oh, yes, my sword!" exclaimed Nell, perking up—for an instant only. "I never thought of my sword; and this is one of the bravest swords I ever drew. I am as weak as a woman, Moll."

"Take heart," said Moll, encouraging her from the rear, as Nell brandished the glittering blade in the direction of the door. "You know you faced an army to-night."

"True," replied Nell, her courage oozing out at her finger-tips, "but then I was a man, and had to seem brave, whether I was or no. Who's there?" she called faintly. "Who's there? Support me, Moll. Beau Adair is on his last legs."

Both stood listening intently and trembling from top to toe.

A score of rich voices, singing harmoniously, broke upon the night.

The startled expression on Nell's face changed instantly to one of fearless, roguish merriment. She was her old self again. She tossed the sword contemptuously upon the floor, laughing in derision now at her companion's fear.

"A serenade! A serenade!" she cried. "Moll—Why, Moll, what feared ye, lass? Come!" She ran gaily to the window and peeped out. "Oh, ho, masqueraders from the moon. Some merry crew, I'll be bound. I am generous. I'll give thee all but one, sweet mouse. The tall knight in white for me! I know he's gallant, though his vizor's down. Marry, he is their captain, I trow; and none but a captain of men shall be captain of my little heart."

"It is Satan and his imps," cried Moll, attempting to draw Nell from the window.

"Tush, little one," laughed Nell, reprovingly. "Satan is my warmest friend. Besides, they cannot cross the moat. The ramparts are ours. The draw-bridge is up."

In a merry mood, she threw a piece of drapery, mantle-like, about Adair's shoulders, quite hiding them, and, decapitating a grim old suit of armour, placed the helmet on her head. Thus garbed, she threw the window quickly open and stepped boldly upon the ledge, within full view of the band beneath. As the moonlight gleamed upon her helmet, one might have fancied her a goodly knight of yore; and, indeed, she looked quite formidable.

"Nell, what are you doing?" called Moll, wildly, from a point of safety. "They can see and shoot you."

"Tilly-vally, girl," replied Nell, undaunted now that she could see that there was no danger, "we'll parley with the enemy in true feudal style. We'll teach them we have a man about the house. Ho, there, strangers of the night—breakers of the King's peace and the slumbers of the righteous! Brawlers, knaves; would ye raise honest men from their beds at such an hour? What means this jargon of tipsy voices? What want ye?"

A chorus of throats without demanded, in muffled accents: "Drink!" "Drink!" "Sack!" "Rhenish!"

"Do ye think this a tavern, knaves?" responded Nell, in a husky, mannish voice. "Do ye think this a vintner's? There are no topers here. Jackanapes, revellers; away with you, or we'll rouse the citadel and train the guns."

Her retort was met with boisterous laughter and mocking cries of "Down with the doors!" "Break in the windows!"

This was a move Nell had not anticipated. She jumped from the ledge, or rather tumbled into the room, nervously dropping her disguise upon the floor.

"Heaven preserve us," she said to Moll, with quite another complexion in her tone, "they are coming in! Oh, Moll, Moll, I did not think they would dare."

Moll closed the sashes and bolted them, then hugged Nell close.

"Ho, there, within!" came, in a guttural voice, now from without the door.

"Yes?" Nell tried to say; but the word scarce went beyond her lips.

Again in guttural tones came a second summons—"Nell! Nell!"

Nell turned to Moll for support and courage, whispering: "Some arrant knave calls Nell at this hour." Then, assuming an attitude of bravery, with fluttering heart, she answered, as best she could, in a forced voice: "Nell's in bed!"

"Yes, Nell's in bed," echoed the constant Moll. "Everybody's in bed. Call to-morrow!"

"No trifling, wench!" commanded the voice without, angrily. "Down with the door!"

"Stand close, Moll," entreated Nell, as she answered the would-be intruder with the question:

"Who are ye? Who are ye?"

"Old Rowley himself!" replied the guttural voice.

This was followed by hoarse laughter from many throats.

"The King—as I thought!" whispered Nell. "Good lack; what shall I do with Adair? Plague on't, he'll be mad if I keep him waiting, and madder if I let him in. Where are your wits, Moll? Run for my gown; fly—fly!"

Moll hastened to do the bidding.

Nell rushed to the entry-door, in frantic agitation.

"The bolt sticks, Sire," she called, pretending to struggle with the door, hoping so to stay his Majesty until she should have time to dispose of poor Adair. "How can I get out of these braveries?" she then asked herself, tugging awkwardly at one part of the male attire and then at another. "I don't know which end of me to begin on first."

Moll re-entered the room with a bundle of pink in her arms, which turned out to be a flowing, silken robe, trimmed with lace.

"Here is the first I found," she said breathlessly.

Nell motioned to her nervously to put it upon the couch.

"Help me out of this coat," she pleaded woefully.

Moll took off the coat and then assisted Nell to circumscribe with the gown, from heels to head, her stunning figure, neatly encased in Adair's habit, which now consisted only of a jaunty shirt of white, gray breeches, shoes and stockings.

"Marry, I would I were a fairy with a magic wand; I could befuddle men's eyes easier," Nell lamented.

The King knocked again upon the door sharply.

"Patience, my liege," entreated Nell, drawing her gown close about her and muttering with personal satisfaction: "There, there; that hides a multitude of sins. The girdle, the girdle! Adair will not escape from this—if we can but keep him quiet; the rogue has a woman's tongue, and it will out, I fear."

She snatched up a mirror and arranged her hair as best she could in the dim light, with the cries without resounding in her ears and with Moll dancing anxiously about her.

"Down with the door," threatened the King, impatiently. "The ram; the battering ram."

"I come, my love; I come," cried Nell, in agitation, fairly running to the door to open it, but stopping aghast as her eye caught over her shoulder the sad, telltale condition of the room.

"'Sdeath," she called in a stage-whisper to Moll; "under the couch with Adair's coat! Patience, Sire," she besought in turn the King. "Help me, Moll. How this lock has rusted—in the last few minutes. My sword!" she continued breathlessly to Moll. "My boots! My hat! My cloak!"

Moll, in her efforts to make the room presentable, was rushing hither and thither, first throwing Adair's coat beneath the couch as Nell commanded and firing the other evidences of his guilty presence, one behind one door and another behind another.

It was done.

Nell slipped the bolt and calmly took a stand in the centre of the room, drawing her flowing gown close about Adair's person. She was quite exhausted from the nervous strain, but her actress's art taught her the way to hide it. Moll, panting for breath, across the room, feigned composure as best she could.

The door opened and in strode the King and his followers.

"Welcome, royal comrades, welcome all!" said Nell, bowing graciously to her untimely visitors.



CHAPTER XVI

Ods-pitikins, my own reflection!

Upon the fine face of the King, as he entered Nell's drawing-room, was an expression of nervous bantering, not wholly unmixed with anxiety.

The slanderous Adair and his almost miraculous escape had not long weighed upon his Majesty's careless nature.

As he had not met Adair until that night or even heard of him, his heart had told him that the Irish roisterer could scarcely be a serious obstacle in the way of Nell's perfect faith, if, indeed, he had met Nell at all, which he doubted. His command to the guard to follow and overtake the youth had been more the command of the ruler than of the man. Despite himself, there had been something about the dainty peacock he could not help but like; and the bold dash for the window, the disarming of the purse-proud Buckingham, who for many reasons displeased him, and the leap to the sward below, with the accompanying farewell, had especially delighted both his manhood and his sense of humour.

He had, therefore, dismissed Adair from his mind, except as a possible subject to banter Nell withal, or as a culprit to punish, if overtaken.

His restless spirit had chafed under the Duchess's lavish entertainment—for the best entertainment is dull to the lover whose sweetheart is absent—and he had turned instinctively from the ball to Nell's terrace, regardless of the hour and scarce noticing his constant attendants.

The night was so beautiful that their souls had found vent in song.

This serenade, however, had brought to Nell's window a wide-awake fellow, who had revealed himself in saucy talk; and the delighted cavaliers, in hope of fun, had charged jeeringly that they had outwitted the guard and had found Adair.

It was this that had brought the anxious look to the King's face; and, though his better judgment was still unchanged, the sight of the knave at the window, together with the suggestions of his merry followers, had cast a shadow of doubt for the moment upon his soul, and he had reflected that there was much that the Irish youth had said that could not be reconciled with that better judgment.

With a careless shrug, he had, therefore, taken up the jest of his lawless crew, which coincided with his own intended purpose, and had sworn that he would turn the household out of bed without regard to pretty protests or formality of warrant. He would raise the question forthwith, in jest and earnest, and worry Nell about the boaster.

"Scurvy entertainment," he began, with frowning brow.

"Yea, my liege," explained Nell, winsomely; "you see—I did not expect the King so late, and so was unpresentable."

"It is the one you do not expect," replied Charles, dryly, "who always causes the trouble, Nell."

"We were in bed, Sire," threw in Moll, thinking to come to the rescue of her mistress.

"Marry, truly," said Nell, catching at the cue, "—asleep, Sire, sound asleep; and our prayers said."

"Tilly-vally," exclaimed the King, "we might credit thy tongue, wench, but for the prayers. No digressions, spider Nell. My sword is in a fighting mood. 'Sdeath, call forth the knight-errant who holds thy errant heart secure for one short hour!"

"The knight of my heart!" cried Nell. "Ah, Sire, you know his name."

She looked at his Majesty with eyes of unfailing love; but the King was true to his jest.

"Yea, marry, I do," laughed Charles, tauntingly, with a wink at his companions; "a pretty piece of heraldry, a bold escutcheon, a dainty poniard—pale as a lily, and how he did sigh and drop his lids and smirk and smirk and dance your latest galliard to surpass De Grammont. Ask brother James how he did dance."

"Nay, Sire," hastily interceded the ever-gallant Rochester, "his Highness of York has suffered enough."

York frowned at the reference; for he had been robbed of his lady at the dance by Adair. He could not forget that. Heedless of his royalty, bestowed by man, she, like the others, had followed in the train of the Irish spark, who was royal only by nature.

"Hang the coxcomb!" he snarled.

"'Slife, I will," replied Charles, slyly, "an you overtake him, brother."

"His back was shapely, Sire," observed Rochester, with quaint humour.

"Yea, and his heels!" cried the King, reflectively. "He had such dainty heels—Mercury's wings attached, to waft him on his way."

"This is moonshine madness!" exclaimed Nell, with the blandest of bland smiles. "There's none such here. By my troth, I would there were. Nay, ask Moll."

Moll did not wait to be asked.

"Not one visitor to-night," she asserted promptly.

"Odso!" cried Charles, in a mocking tone. "Whence came the Jack at the window—the brave young challenger—'Would ye raise honest men from their beds at such an hour?'"

A burst of laughter followed the King's grave imitation of the window-boaster.

"Sire!" sighed Rochester, in like spirit. "'Do you think this a vintner's? There are no topers here.'"

Another burst of merry laughter greeted the speaker, as he punctuated his words by catching up the wine-cups from the table and clinking them gaily.

Nell's face was as solemn as a funeral.

"To your knees, minx," commanded James, grimly, "and crave mercy of your prince."

"Faith and troth," pleaded Nell, seriously, "'t was I myself with helmet and mantle on. You see, Sire, my menials were guests at Portsmouth's ball—to lend respectability."

"Saucy wag," cried the Merry Monarch. "A ball?—A battle—which would have killed thee straight!"

"It had liked to," reflected Nell, as she tartly replied: "A war of the sex without me? It was stupid, then. The Duchess missed me, I trow."

"Never fear," answered Charles, with difficulty suppressing his mirth; "you were bravely championed."

"I am sure of that," said Nell, slyly; "my King was there."

"And a bantam cock," ejaculated Charles, sarcastically, "upon whose lips 'Nell' hung familiarly."

"Some strange gallant," cried Nell, in ecstasy, "took my part before them all? Who was he, Sire? Don't tantalize me so."

She smiled, half serious, half humorous, as she pleaded in her charming way.

"A chip from the Blarney Stone," observed the King at length, ironically, "surnamed Adair!"

"Adair! Adair!" cried Nell, to the astonishment of all. "We spent our youth together. I see him in my mind's eye, Sire, throw down the gauntlet in Nell's name and defy the world for her. Fill the cups. We'll drink to my new-found hero! Fill! Fill! To Beau Adair, as you love me, gallants! Long life to Adair!"

The cups were filled to overflowing and trembled on eager lips in response to the hostess's merry toast.

"Stay!" commanded the King, in peremptory tones. "Not a drop to a coward!"

"A coward!" cried Nell, aghast. "Adair a coward? I'll never credit it, Sire!"

She turned away, lest she reveal her merriment, as she bethought her: "He is trembling in my boots now. I can feel him shake."

"Our pledge is Nell, Nell only!" exclaimed the King, his cup high in air.

With one accord, the gallants eagerly took up the royal pledge. "Aye, aye, Nell!" "Nell!" "We'll drink to Nell!"

"You do me honour, royal gentlemen," bowed Nell, well pleased at the King's toast.

She had scarce touched the cup to her lips, however, with a mental chuckle, "Poor Adair! Here's a health to the inner man!" when her eye fell upon one of Adair's gray boots, which Moll had failed to hide, in her excitement, now revealing itself quite plainly in the light of the many candles. She caught it adroitly on the tip of her toe and sent it whizzing through the air in the direction of poor Moll, who, fortunately, caught it in midair and hid it quickly beneath her apron.

The King turned at the sound; but Nell's face was as woefully unconcerned as a church-warden's at his hundredth burial.

The wine added further zest to the merry-making and the desire for sport.

"Now, fair huswife," continued Charles, his thoughts reverting to Adair, "set forth the dish, that we may carve it to our liking. 'Tis a dainty bit,—lace, velvet and ruffles."

"Heyday, Sire," responded Nell, evasively, "the larder's empty."

"Devil on't," cried Charles, ferociously; "no mincing, wench. In the confusion of the ball, the bird escaped my guard by magic. We know whither the flight."

The King assumed a knowing look.

"Escaped the guard?" gasped Nell, in great surprise. "Alas, I trow some petticoat has hid him then."

"I'll stake my life upon't," observed James, who had not been heard from in some time but who had been observing the scene with decorous dignity.

"Sire, you would not injure Adair," pleaded Nell, now alert, with all her arts of fascination. "You are too generous. Blue eyes of heaven, and such a smile! Did you mark that young Irishman's smile, Sire?"

Her impudence was so bewitching that the King scarce knew whether it were jest or earnest. He sprang to his feet from the couch, where he had thrown himself after the toast to Nell, and, with some forcefulness, exclaimed:

"Odsfish, this to my teeth, rogue! Guard the doors, gallants; we'd gaze upon this paragon."

"And set him pirouetting, Sire," sardonically suggested James.

"Yea, to the tune of these fiddle-sticks," laughed Charles, as he unsheathed his rapier. "Search from tile to rafter."

"Aye, aye," echoed the omnipresent Rochester, "from cellar to garret."

Before, however, the command could be obeyed, even in resolution, Nell moved uneasily to a curtain which hung in the corner of the room and placed herself before it, as if to shield a hidden man.

"Sire," she pleaded fearfully, "spare him, Sire; for my sake, Sire. He is not to blame for loving me. He cannot help it. You know that, Sire!"

"Can he really be here?" muttered Charles, with clouding visage. "Saucy wench! Hey! My blood is charging full-tilt through my veins. Odsfish, we'll try his mettle once again."

"Prythee, Sire," begged Nell, "he is too noble and brave and handsome to die. I love his very image."

"Oh, ho!" cried Charles. "A silken blind for the silken bird! Hey, St. George for merry England! Come forth, thou picture of cowardice, thou vile slanderer."

He grasped Nell by the wrist and fairly dragged her across the room. Then, rushing to the curtain, he seized its silken folds and tore it completely from its hangings—only to face himself in a large mirror. "Ods-pitikins, my own reflection!" he exclaimed, with menacing tone, though there was relief as well in his voice. He bent the point of his blade against the floor, gazed at himself in the pier-glass and looked over his shoulder at Nell, who stood in the midst of his courtiers, splitting her sides with laughter, undignified but honest.

"Rogue, rogue," he cried, "I should turn the point on thee for this trick; but England would be worse than a Puritan funeral with no Nell. Thou shalt suffer anon."

"I defy thee, Sire, and all thy imps of Satan," laughed the vixen, as she watched the King sheathe his jewelled sword. "Cast Nell in the blackest dungeon, Adair is her fellow-prisoner; outlaw Nell, Adair is her brother outlaw; off with Nell's head, off rolls Adair's. Who else can boast so true a love!"

"Thou shalt be banished the realm," decided the King, jestingly; for he was now convinced that her Adair was but a jest to tease him—a Roland for his Oliver.

"Banished!" cried Nell, with bated breath.

"Aye; beyond sea, witch!" answered the King, with pompous austerity. "Virginia shall be thy home."

"Good, good!" laughed Nell, gaily. "Sire, the men grow handsome in Virginia, and dauntless; and they tell me there are a dearth of women there. Oh, banish me at once to—What's the name?"

"Jamestown," suggested York, recalling the one name because of its familiar sound.

"Yea, brother James," said Nell, fearlessly mimicking his brusque accent, "Jamestown."

"Savages, wild men, cannibals," scowled Charles.

"Cannibals!" cried Nell. "Marry, I should love to be a cannibal. Are there cannibals in Jamestown, brother James? Banish me, Sire; banish me to Jamestown of all places. Up with the sails, my merry men; give me the helm! Adair will sail in the same good ship, I trow."

"Adair! I trow thou wert best at home, cannibal Nelly," determined the King.

"Then set all the men in Britain to watch me, Sire," said Nell; "for, from now on, I'll need it."

The King shook his finger warningly at her, then leaned carelessly against the window.

"Ho there!" he cried out suddenly. "A night disturbance, a drunken brawl, beneath our very ears! Fellow-saints, what mean my subjects from their beds this hour of night? Their sovereign does the revelling for the realm. James, Rochester and all, see to 't!"



CHAPTER XVII

The day will be so happy; for I've seen you at the dawn.

The room was quickly cleared, the King's courtiers jostling one another in their efforts to carry out the royal bidding.

Charles turned with a merry laugh and seized Nell in his arms almost fiercely.

"A subterfuge!" he cried eagerly. "Nell, quick; one kiss!"

"Nay; you question my constancy to-night," said Nell, sadly, as she looked into his eyes, with the look of perfect love. "You do not trust me."

"I do, sweet Nell," protested the King, earnestly.

"You bring me Portsmouth's lips," said Nell, with sad reproof.

"I left her dance for you," replied the King, drawing her closer to him.

"At near sunrise, Sire," sighed Nell, reprovingly, as she drew back the curtain and revealed the first gray streaks of the breaking light of day.

"Nay, do not tantalize me, Nell," besought the King, throwing himself upon the couch. "I am sad to-night."

The woman's forgiving heart was touched with sympathy. Her eyes sought his sadly beautiful face. She ran to him, fell upon her knees and kissed his hand tenderly.

"Tantalize my King!" she cried. "The day will be so happy; for I've seen you at the dawn." There was all the emotional fervour and pathetic tenderness which the great composer has compressed into the love-music of "Tristan and Isolde" in her voice.

"My crown is heavy, Nell," he continued. "Heaven gives us crowns, but not the eye to see the ending of our deeds."

"God sees them," said Nell. "Ah, Sire, I thank the Maker of the world for giving a crown to one whom I respect and love."

"And I curse it," cried the King, with earnest eyes; "for 'tis the only barrier to our united love. It is the sparkling spider in the centre of a great web of intrigue and infamy."

"You make me bold to speak. Cut the web, Sire, which binds thy crown to France. There is the only danger."

"Thou art wrong, Nelly, wrong!" He spoke in deep, firm accents. "I have decided otherwise."

He rose abruptly, his brow clouded with thought. She took his hand tenderly.

"Then, change your mind, Sire," she pleaded; "for I can prove—"

"What, girl?" he asked eagerly, his curiosity awakened by her manner.

Nell did not respond. To continue would reveal Adair, and she could not think of that.

"What, I say?" again asked Charles, impatiently.

"To-morrow, Sire," laughed Nell, evasively.

"Aye, to-morrow and to-morrow!" petulantly repeated the King.

He was about to demand a direct reply but was stayed by the sound of a struggle without.

It befell in the nick of time for Nell, as all things, indeed, in life seemed to befall in the nick of time for her. The impious huswives shook their heads and attributed it to the evil influence; the pious huswives asserted it was providential; Nell herself laughingly declared it was her lucky star.

"Ho, without there!" Charles cried, impatiently—almost angrily—at the interruption. "Whence comes this noisy riot?"

James, Rochester and the others unceremoniously re-entered.

"Pardon, Sire," explained the Duke of York; "the guard caught but now an armed ruffian prowling by the house. They report they stayed him on suspicion of his looks and insolence."

"Adair! Adair! My life upon't!" laughed the King, ever ready for sport. "Set him before us."

An officer of the guard departed quickly to bring in the offender. The courtiers took up the King's cry most readily; and there was a general cackle of "Adair!" "Adair!" "A trial!" "Sire!" "Bring in the coward!"

Nell stood in the midst of the scene, the picture of demure innocence.

"They've caught Adair!" she whispered to Moll, mischievously.

"Aye, gallants," cried the Merry Monarch, approvingly, "we'll form a Court of Inquiry. This table shall be our bench, on which we'll hem and haw and puff and look judicial. Odsfish, we will teach Radamanthus and Judge Jeffreys ways of terrorizing."

He sprang upon the table, which creaked somewhat beneath the royal burden, and assumed the austere, frowning brow of worldly justice.

"Oyer, oyer, all ye who have grievances—" cried the garrulous Rochester in the husky tones of the crier, who most generally assumes that he is the whole court and oftentimes should be.

"Mistress Nell," commanded the royal judge, summoning Nell to the bar, "thou shalt be counsel for the prisoner; Adair's life hangs upon thy skill to outwit the law."

"Or bribe the judge, Sire?" suggested Nell, demurely.

"Not with thy traitor lips," retorted Charles, with the injured dignity of a petty justice about to commit a flash of true wit for contempt of court.

"Traitor lips?" cried Nell, sadly. "By my troth, I never kissed Adair. I confess, I tried, your Majesty; but I could not."

"Have a care," replied the King, in a tone which indicated that the fires of suspicion still smouldered in his breast; "I am growing jealous."

Nell fell upon one knee and stretched forth her arms suppliantly.

"Adair is in such a tight place, Sire, he can scarcely breathe," she pleaded, with the zeal of a barrister hard-working for his first fee in her voice, "much less speak for himself. Mercy!"

"We will have justice; not mercy," replied the court, with a sly wink at Rochester. "Guilty or not guilty, wench?"

"Not guilty, Sire! Did you ever see the man who was?"

The King laughed despite himself, followed by his ever-aping courtiers.

"I'll plead for the Crown," asserted the grim James, with great vehemence, "to rid the realm of this dancing-Jack."

"Thou hast cause, brother," laughed the King. "Rochester, thou shalt sit by us here."

Rochester sprang, with a contented chuckle, into a chair on the opposite side of the table to that upon which his Majesty was holding his mock-court and seated himself upon its high back, so poised as not to fall. From this lofty bench, with a queer gurgle, to say nothing of a swelling of the chest, and with an approving glance from his Majesty, he added his mite to the all-inspiring dignity of the revellers' court.

"Judge Rochester!" continued the King, slapping him with his glove, across the table. "Judge—of good ale. We'll confer with the cups, imbibe the statutes and drink in the law. Set the rascal before us."

In obedience to the command, a man well muffled with a cloak was forced into the room, a guard at either arm.

Behind them, taking advantage of the open door to appease their curiosity, crowded many hangers-on of courtdom, among whom was Strings, who had met the revellers some distance from the house and had returned with them.