"May I crave one moment more?" asked the Abbe.

"Yes, but be brief," returned the king.

"My instructions, your Majesty, are to leave London not later than sunrise on the day after making my king's offer. That will be to-morrow morning, when I shall hasten back to Paris, whence no other messenger will come. Twenty thousand troops are now within three hours' march of Dunkirk. Your Majesty's ships cannot reach the city in time to save it. I beg to say that I have delivered the entire message intrusted to me by my august master, and therefore crave your royal permission to withdraw."

The king lifted his right hand in assent, and the Abbe moved backward, bowing himself from the room. De Grammont, who had come with him, met him at the door, and immediately they went to the count's house. When they were gone, the king dismissed all save his counsellors, and I being at liberty to leave, hastened to her Grace's anteroom. As I passed the door, my hat in my hand, I bowed to Frances, who was watching me intently. She smiled, glanced significantly toward my hat, nodded her head to let me know that she understood, and I passed by, glad that she had the courage which I so sadly lacked.

Evidently Frances lost no time in doing her part with the king, for two hours later a page came to me in the Wardrobe, saying that the king wished to see me immediately. I made all possible haste, and when I entered the king's closet, he said:—

"Close the door, Clyde," but seemed unable for the moment to say more.

He could not hide his excitement, and presently began telling me in a peremptory manner that he had a very delicate piece of business for my hands. He did not seem to feel sure of his ground, and spoke with a bravado altogether unnecessary, as though he would say I should do his will whether it suited me or not, rather than in words of respectful command. I could see easily that his bravado was assumed for the purpose of forestalling any objection on my part. Of course he did not suspect for one moment that I surmised what he wanted, or his words would have been: "Odds fish! To the Tower with him!"

After several stammering efforts, he began: "I want you to see Du Boise, whom you will find at De Grammont's house, and tell him that I accept the offer he made this morning. I understand he brings the treaties from France already written. At eight o'clock this evening they are to be placed in the hands of your cousin, Mistress Jennings, together with the bill drawn on Backwell of Lombard Street, for the sum of one hundred thousand pounds. Deliver my message immediately and secretly. Let no one know that I have spoken to you on the subject. After you have seen Du Boise, go to Mistress Jennings and give her word from the Abbe designating where and at what hour she is to receive the documents. I suggest eight o'clock, that they may not be in her possession too long. But wait a moment!"

He went to a writing desk standing near the river window, beckoned to me, and continued excitedly, "Sit here and write at my dictation."

I sat down before the desk, took a quill, and awaited the king's pleasure. After a moment's thought he dictated as follows:—

"To MONSIEUR L'ABBE DU BOISE,

"Ambassador Extraordinary from his Majesty, King Louis of France:

"Out of love for my royal brother, King Louis, and for the purpose of maintaining the peace and amity now existing between the glorious realms of England and France, I accept his Majesty's offer to purchase the city of Dunkirk, communicated to me at this morning's audience. You will therefore place in the hands of the bearer, Baron Clyde, two copies of a treaty consummating this transaction which I understand you have already written out. With said copies you will also place a bill drawn in the sum of one hundred thousand pounds on one, Edward Backwell, goldsmith, Lombard Street, with whom I am told the funds lie, and for which this writing shall be your full acquittance.

"The treaties shall be fully executed by you on the part of your master, in accordance with the terms of your instrument of authority now resting with my Lord Chancellor. When said treaties and said bill come to me, the treaties will be signed, and the copy intended for your master will be returned to you this evening so that you may carry out your instructions by leaving at dawn tomorrow morning. To the which I give my reluctant consent and request that you leave England without further ceremony, believing that your duty to your master mounts superior to the mere observation of courtly usage in formal leave-taking.

"Signed by the king's own hand,

"CHARLES R."

"You will see your cousin immediately after your consultation with Du Boise, and arrange to deliver the documents to her hands privately at the hour of eight o'clock."

"I beg your Majesty's indulgence for one question," I said, assuming as well as I could a reluctant manner.

"Yes, yes, but be quick," returned the king.

"It is this," I continued stammeringly. "Is my cousin to deliver the documents to you after the hour of eight o'clock?"

"That is no affair of yours, and your question is impertinent," answered the king. "Obey my commands and keep your lips sealed, if you would oblige your king, save trouble to yourself, and perhaps be rewarded. Hear me, Clyde! I will brook no interference in this matter. Do you fully understand?"

"Yes, your Majesty. To obey the king's command is the highest duty I know," I answered, hanging my head.

"Ah, that is better. Now you may go," said the king, motioning his hand toward the door.

Frances had been expeditious in doing her part, and I was wondering what she had done to work so great a change in the king's mind in so short a time. So I made all haste to see Du Boise in order that I might the sooner see my cousin and question her. I found Hamilton downcast, but when I gave him the king's letter, his gloom turned to anger.

"No, no!" he cried, springing from his chair. "Never! Never! Frances is buying the king's complaisance, God knows at what price! It shall not be! The cur! The coward! I'll kill him before the hour arrives!"

"Listen to me, George," I insisted, "and for once in your life, don't be a fool. You will ruin us all if you lose your head at the moment when success is waiting for us. You, yourself, suggested this plan, and, thanks to my cousin's courage, it is working out beautifully. I don't know what she has to propose, nor what she is going to do. I know nothing of her plans, but I trust her. Can't you?"

"Yes, yes, I trust her," he replied, growing more calm. "But I do not trust him. She will go to him alone, expecting, doubtless, to escape, but she does not know the risk she is running."

"Do not fear for her," I answered assuringly. "She will be prepared to defend herself. Make all things ready, and I'll go to learn of Frances's plans. You may be sure she will provide some way for her own protection. When a woman of brains sets out to hoodwink a man, he usually gets what he deserves, even though he be an absolute king."

"Well, be off, and back again at the earliest possible moment," said George, resigning himself, under compulsion, to the hard conditions the situation imposed.

When I left Hamilton, I hastened to Frances and found her expecting me. She told me her story in a few words:—"The treaty and the bill of exchange, I believe you call it, are to be placed in my hands to-night at eight o'clock," she said. "I am trembling now, but I shall be calm when the time comes. I am to take the documents to the king's closet at nine o'clock, and am to enter by way of the privy stairs from the river."

"Yes, yes, I know," I answered, and then I told her briefly of the king's orders.

"You to bring me the papers!" she exclaimed, laughing softly.

"Yes," I answered. "It completes the jest, if it prove to be one. But tell me, what do you propose to do when you go to the king's closet?"

"You see it was this way," she began, sitting down and smoothing out her skirts; "I so arranged it that I met his Majesty soon after I saw you pass with your hat in your hand. He was ready enough to take me for a walk in the garden, and when he fell under the influence of the sun and the flowers, he began, as usual, to protest his love. I gave him full rein,—full rein, Baron Ned,—and after he had talked and protested a great deal, I told him that he might prove his regard for me if he would. He asked me in what manner, and said that he would do whatever I asked.

"'It is this, your Majesty,' I answered hesitatingly. 'By accident I met the Abbe du Boise at Lilly's house yesterday. It seems he had heard of the kind friendship your Majesty has shown me, and doubtless hoping to use me, offered me ten thousand pounds if I succeeded in inducing your Majesty to accept the French king's offer for the city of Dunkirk. Ever since my interview with him, I have been trying to see your Majesty, hoping that you might find the information useful, and desiring your Majesty to know that I was to receive the money in case you accepted, else I might seem false to my king.'"

I laughed and said: "I knew you would be able to wheedle him. A little woman with a big motive is like faith, in that she can move mountains."

"Yes, yes, it is easy enough," she answered. "He took my hand, and I permitted him to hold it for a moment, then withdrew it, you know, as though impelled by modesty. After duly hanging my head and casting down my eyes in a very spasm of shyness, I told the king that I hoped he would accept the French king's offer, and reminded him that it might avert the terrible consequences of war, in addition to putting ten thousand pounds in my poor empty little purse. He said he would put the ten thousand there for me, but I refused, saying that I had never before made a request of him, and that if he did not see fit to grant this, I should never make another, but should leave Whitehall at once."

"Ah! the little woman with a big motive pouts if the mountain moves too slowly. I should like to have heard you talking to him," I said.

"And perhaps you would have spoiled it all," she answered. "We walked down the path for perhaps three or four minutes, but at length the king spoke, stammeringly, and said that if I would bring the treaty to his closet this evening at nine o'clock, he would sign it."

"The dog!" I exclaimed.

"After a long pause, I answered hesitatingly, telling him that I could not accede to his request, and that I withdrew my petition, craving permission to leave Whitehall to-morrow. Thereupon he fell into an ecstasy of entreaty, and when we parted he was very happy, for I had promised to take the documents to him at nine o'clock. He said I was to come to the privy stairs leading from the river to his closet and go up to him for his signature and seal, when he would execute the treaty immediately and send it by a trusted messenger to the Abbe du Boise."

"Ah, but how will you get away from the closet?" I asked.

"If he will permit me to be the messenger, I can easily escape, but for fear he will not, you and George shall act as my watermen. Have a boat waiting for me near the garden stairs at nine o'clock, and we'll go by river to the king's private stairs. I'll go by myself to his closet and will come back to you by some means with the signed treaty. And, Baron Ned, have Betty with you. A woman is always braver with a woman alongside, and Betty always brings us good luck. Then, too, she can steer the boat; she knows the river as she knows her father's house. Remember, nine o'clock, and be sure that Betty is with you."

I went back to George, and when I told him of Frances's plan, he said:—

"If she does not return from the king's closet as soon as we shall have reason to expect her, we'll fetch her and make a page of history by leaving a dead king."

"In which case the English people would hang us and then bless us. It is their fashion. We should be as immortal as Guy Fawkes," I answered; laughing to keep my courage up.

George stood in revery for a moment and answered as if he were speaking to himself:—

"But what will happen if we are overpowered in the king's closet? He always keeps a ruffian guard in his ante-chamber."

"In that sad case, Frances must kill herself and we shall die fighting unless we preferred Tyburn Hill a day or two later," I answered. "It is all as plain as day. Why do you not forget that failure is possible? I have never known you to stand in doubt; why do it now on the eve of victory?"

"Frances! Frances! Frances! She is why I stand in doubt. My own life is not worth a farthing, but I have no right to bring her into this frightful peril."

"She has no fear, and the sooner you drive it out of your heart the better it will be for our cause."

"I suppose you are right, Baron Ned," he responded with a sigh; "if we go at this without fear or doubt we can't fail. Go ahead, my friend. May God forgive us if we are wrong and help us in any case." And I left him hurriedly, lest I should be infected with his deadly fear.

I next saw Betty, much to my delight, and of course she was eager to help us.

"Know the river?" she exclaimed, in answer to my question. "I know it as well as I know Gracious Street. I have shot the arches of London Bridge with the spring tide going out, and there is many a waterman who would not dare try it. If need be, I'll take you through the middle arch, where the flambeau hangs, and land you at Deptford or Sheerness, or Holland, I care not which." So there was no fear in her heart. If courage was the touchstone of fortune, we were sure to win, for there was no fear in any heart save George's, and ordinarily he was the bravest of us all.

When all arrangements were made, even to engaging a small boat, which was to wait for us at Westminster stairs, I took to my bed for the rest of the day. At six o'clock I received the treaties and the bill of exchange from Hamilton and delivered them to Frances. Then I went to fetch Bettina.

Grammont had offered to go with us, when we explained what we were to do and the danger in doing it, and we were glad to have him and his sword, for we might find ourselves in straits where we should need both. He and Hamilton were to meet me at the head of King's Street. Each of us was to carry a long sword and to have a pistol, charged and primed, in his belt.

After leaving the parchments with Frances, I hastened to bring Betty up to Whitehall, and, shortly after eight o'clock, met Du Boise and De Grammont at King's Street arch, all of us wearing full vizards.

We walked down to the boat, De Grammont frequently taking notice of Bettina, for, despite her full vizard and an enveloping cloak, she was far too attractive not to rivet his attention.

When we reached Westminster stairs, we found the boat awaiting us. We did not want the watermen to go with us, so I bought the boat and dismissed them.

We entered the boat, and when Bettina took the stern oar, De Grammont asked:—

"Who is she—the lady on the stern thwart? Can she steer the boat? Does she know the river?"

"Yes, to all of your questions, count," I answered.

"'Yes' doesn't answer the first question," he returned.

"It isn't to be answered," I replied curtly, and he returned with an apologetic "Pardon!"

Just before nine o'clock we took Frances aboard at Whitehall Garden Stairs and drifted slowly down to the king's privy stairs, from which the narrow flight of steps rose to the king's closet in the story above.

When we drew up at the privy stairs, Frances stepped out of the boat to the landing and whispered:—

"I shall arrange in some way to return, just as soon as the king signs the treaty, but if you hear me scream, come to my rescue. I am prepared to defend myself, and shall give the signal only when I must."

After climbing the narrow steps, she entered the king's closet and found him alone. Almost at the same instant she caught the sound of heavy steps in the adjoining room and heard the clang of steel on a bare oak floor. This demonstration was made, I suppose, by the king's order, for the purpose of intimidating Frances lest she prove rebellious.

In response to her frightened look of inquiry, the king said, "Only a half dozen troopers whom I always keep in my anteroom to be at hand if needed."

"A wise precaution, your Majesty," returned Frances, bringing herself together as quickly as possible. "Here are the copies of the treaty, your Majesty, and here is the bill on Backwell. The Abbe du Boise instructed me to ask your Majesty to sign his copy of the treaty immediately and return it to him. He waits in a boat at the foot of the privy stairs, and is anxious to go down the river to his ship before the tide turns."

"Waits at the foot of the stairs?" exclaimed the king. "Odds fish! What is he doing there? But it shall be done at once. I had the Great Seal brought to me, so that I might fully execute the treaty without delay. I supposed the Abbe would desire its immediate return as soon as the money was paid."

"Yes, your Majesty," answered Frances, growing short of breath from excitement, "he is waiting below for it."

The king sat down at his desk, signed the treaty, affixed the Great Seal, returned the parchment to its envelope, and, turning to Frances, said:—

"Now, the first kiss, my beauty!"

"Not now, your Majesty. Please wait till I return," she answered, taking the treaty from the king's hand without his leave. "I do not want to disarrange my vizard till after I have returned the parchment to the Abbe. I fear the watermen will recognize me."

"Who is in the boat with the Abbe?" asked the king.

"His servant, a French gentleman, and two watermen. He insisted on bringing me, reluctant, doubtless to trust me with the parchments and the bill," she answered, lying with the ease of a Lombard Street hosier.

But the king, growing suspicious because of her haste, caught her by the arm, saying: "You remain here. I'll return the treaty."

She drew her arm from the king's grasp and started so hurriedly toward the door that the king took alarm and followed her, crying out:—

"I tell you I'll send the packet by other hands. You remain here."

She did not stop, so he caught her again by the arm, and spoke sharply: "You are to remain with me. Do you hear? I'm not to be played with. I'll send the packet—"

But she broke from his grasp, hastily opened the door, and found herself not at the head of the privy stairs, but in the king's anteroom, surrounded by a half dozen men in armor one of whom attempted to seize her. Instantly she sprang back to the king's closet, screaming, not as a signal to us, for she had forgotten our agreement in that respect, but in genuine fright.

Her screams brought George, De Grammont, and myself to the door at the head of the stairs in less time than one could count ten. We drew our swords, and I tried to open the door, but found it locked.

"The oars! The heavy oars!" whispered De Grammont.

I ran down the stairs to the boat and was about to ask Bettina to hand me the oars, when she, anticipating me, whispered:—

"I heard some one call for the oars, so I threw them out. There they are!"

There they were, true enough, halfway up the water stairs, ready for my hand, because of Betty's quickness.

In less than ten seconds I was at the top of the stairs again, and within twenty seconds more we had battered down the door with our heavy ash oars. In the king's closet we found Frances, surrounded by men at arms, and the king crouching in a corner, barricaded by small pieces of furniture.

George fired his pistol, and one of the six men fell, whereupon several pistol shots were fired, filling the small room with powder smoke, but injuring no one so far as we knew. De Grammont found an opening in another man's armor, and four stood between us and Frances. Then the real fight began—four against three. This would have been heavy odds in an open field, but it was not so formidable in a small room almost dark with smoke. Above all, the troopers were fighting for pay; we were fighting for life.

The four men charged us fiercely, and while we were fighting just inside the room, Frances worked her way from behind our antagonists toward the battered door and was about to make her escape when one of the king's men struck her a cowardly blow with the hilt of his sword, and she fell to the floor at the head of the stairs.

"You and Hamilton take her to the boat," cried De Grammont, speaking to me, but continuing to fence, as though by instinct. "I'll hold the door till you call; then I'll run. The next best thing to fighting is running."

I regretted the use of Hamilton's name, as it would betray his presence, if overheard, which otherwise would not have been suspected, all of us being well masked. But I had no time to waste in vain regrets, so George and I lifted Frances from the floor and helped her down to the boat, leaving De Grammont just outside the battered door, defending himself nobly against four armed men and keeping them inside the king's closet. He seemed to be enjoying himself, for he was laughing, bowing, parrying, and thrusting, as though he were at a frolic rather than a fight. There is but one people on earth in whose blood is mingled fire and ice—the French.

When we reached the water, we found that the running tide had carried the boat a short distance down-stream, but Bettina was standing on the stern thwart, bending this way and that in her endeavor to scull back to the landing by means of the steering oar. Every drop of blood in Bettina's plump little body was worth its weight in triple fine gold to us that night, for she brought the boat back to us without delay, and George helped Frances aboard while I ran to the foot of the privy stairs, shouting loudly:—

"Come on, Berkeley! Come quickly!"

Usually I think of the right thing to say a fortnight after the opportunity, but this once the name Berkeley came to me in the nick of time, and I evened my score with its possessor for many a dirty trick he had put upon me. To suspect was to condemn with Charles, and I knew that if he heard me call Berkeley's name, that consummate villain would suffer the royal frown. And so he did, never having been able to explain, nor deny, satisfactorily to the king, his presence at the head of the privy stairs that night. But to return to the fight.

De Grammont heard my summons, came down the stairs three steps at a time, and sprang into the boat from the landing.

"The oars! The oars!" cried Hamilton.

"Death is between them and us!" cried De Grammont.

"Let us go!" cried Betty. "I'll scull the boat with the steering oar!"

There was not a man in the boat who knew the art of propelling it with one oar. Truly Betty was our salvation that night.

I shoved the boat off, Betty turned its head down-stream, and away we shot. We were not ten paces from the water stairs when five men came running from the privy stairs to the landing. I recognized the king, who was in the lead. As they reached the water edge of the landing, I heard a splash. Majesty, in his eagerness to overtake us, had gathered too great headway and had landed, if I may use the word, in the water.

The other men, being in armor, were compelled to doff their iron before jumping in to save the king. The night was dark, but we were so near the landing that I saw two of the men begin to throw off their armor, and presently I heard two splashes, followed quickly by two pistol shots in our direction. In our direction, I say, because both of the balls struck our boat.

After the pistol shots, all was quiet, but I knew that one of the king's barges, with a dozen men at as many sweeps, and a score of men at arms, would soon follow us. I made my way to the stern thwart of our boat, where Betty was sculling for dear life, taking her course diagonally across the river toward the Southwark bank. After we had passed the swift current in the middle of the river, which I thought she had been seeking, I asked:—

"Why do you not keep to the centre, Betty? You are making toward the other bank."

"Yes," she replied, with what breath she could spare. "We'll find a stand of boats tied to poles almost opposite Temple Bar stairs. There we may take a pair of oars. I'm afraid I can't hold out at this much longer."

We soon found the boat stand, and, with little ceremony, appropriated a pair of oars, leaving a crown on the thwart of the rifled boat.

Hamilton and I quickly adjusted the stolen sweeps in the oar-locks, Betty sat down on the stern thwart, guided the boat to the swift water of the centre, and immediately we sped toward London Bridge at a fine rate. Presently, as we had expected, we heard the rapid, regular stroke of the sweeps in the king's barge, and in a few minutes it was so close behind us that we could see the men at the sweeps. When they saw us, they fired their pistols at us, but we did not hear the bullets splash in the water, so we knew they did not have our range.

My greatest fear of the bullets was for Bettina's sake, she being in the rear and more exposed to the enemy's fire than we who were at the sweeps, but I could not leave my oar to take her place, nor could I have steered the boat had I done so, being unfamiliar with the river. All I could do was to hasten our stroke, which George and I did to our utmost, and soon the welcome beacon over the centre arch of London Bridge came into view, dimly at first, but brightening with every stroke of our sweeps. As we approached the Bridge, De Grammont nervously called our attention to the danger ahead of us.

"Yes, we'll take the middle arch, and I shall enjoy seeing the king's barge follow us," I answered, with what breath I could spare.

"Take the middle arch, and the tide running as a river in flood?" cried De Grammont, speaking French, being too excited to sort out English words. "Never! Never! Let me out!"

"Do not fear, count," I answered. "Our pilot—"

"Our pilot! Ah, sacrament! We are lost! Our pilot is a mere girl!"

"But a wonder, count, a wonder. There is no waterman on the river in whose hands we should be safer," I replied, expressing my confidence in stronger terms than it really deserved. To shoot London Bridge when the tide was running out, as it then was, would give pause to the hardiest waterman. A misstroke of the steering oar, the slightest faltering in the hands that held it, the mere touch of the boat's nose against the jagged rocks and logs of the pier, and all would be lost.

We could not stop to put De Grammont on shore, and presently recognizing that fact, he sat down in resignation in the bow of the boat, remarking with a sigh, as though speaking to himself:—

"Ah, the beautiful land!"

By that time the flambeau was blazing not two hundred yards ahead of us. The current had caught us, and the waves of the running tide came almost to the gunwale of the boat. Bettina had risen to her feet, leaving her hat, vizard, and cloak in the bottom of the boat, and was standing on the stern thwart, her back towards us and her face up-stream. Behind us, perhaps three hundred yards, came the king's great barge, ablaze with torches. The men in the barge had ceased firing, supposing, probably, that we should be forced to land above the Bridge, and should then become an easy prey. But we had Bettina with us; they had not. Besides ours, there was not another one in the world.

On came the flambeau over the middle arch. It seemed to be coming toward us rather than we going toward it. Nearer lowered the black dim outline of the houses on the Bridge, with here and there the flicker of a candle in a window, magnified to starlike brightness by distance.

Clearer and clearer came the dash and the splash, the roar and the turmoil of the waters pouring through the terrible death's door, the middle arch. Yet over the middle arch was the only flambeau on London Bridge, placed there because it was the broadest of all the spans, and we dared not attempt to pass under the Bridge in the dark.

But worse than the middle arch ahead of us was the king's barge following close behind us. It, too, was in the current, though its twelve sweeps could easily have taken it ashore. I suppose that pride and eagerness to overtake us prompted its captain to follow in our wake. At any rate, he continued and was narrowing the distance between us with each stroke of the sweeps. When I asked Bettina if she thought they would attempt the arch, she replied:—

"I hope not," then laughing softly, "—for their own sakes. The royal barges are not built to shoot the bridge."

As we approached the bridge, Betty turned her eyes backward toward it every few seconds, taking her bearings and bringing the boat's nose now a little to the right, now to the left, and again holding it straight ahead.

When we were within twenty yards of the middle arch, she told us to cease rowing, and we obeyed, leaving the boat in her hands.

The roar of the falling waters, tumbling in a cataract on the further side of the Bridge, frightened me, but if Betty heard it she did not fear it, for she began to sing the plaintive little French lullaby we had so often heard, and De Grammont, leaning forward, touched me on the back as he whispered:—

"God gives us an angel to steer our boat."

The next moment the water caught us in its mighty suck, just under the upper edge of the arch, and almost before we were aware that we had started through, our boat made a plunge on the lower side, the perilous moment was past, and we were floating in comparatively still water two score yards below London Bridge.

Then Captain Bettina resumed her seat on the stern thwart, and we dipped our oars.

We were turning about to get under way again, when De Grammont cried out:—

"Mon Dieu! They are lost! There they go under! Ah, Jesu!"

We all turned our eyes toward the Bridge, but were too late to see the barge. It had sunk in four fathoms of water, and every man aboard had gone down with it.

We backed water, resting on our oars, and presently the overturned barge came to the surface and floated past us, telling its sad story, "Perished in a bad king's bad cause,"—a story written on almost every page of the world's history.

A short distance below the Tower, we met a large boat belonging to the ship in which George had come from France, which was waiting off Sheerness to take him back. The boat had been plying between Deptford and the Bridge, looking for George, since early evening. We recognized it by its long sweeps, and when we hailed it, we received the password and drew alongside.

All this time Frances had been allowed to sit in the bottom of the boat, she having assured us that she had taken no injury, but as we approached the French boat she arose, and when I asked her if she was hurt, she said, "No."

When I asked her if she had the treaty, she replied, holding out her hand to George:—

"Yes, here it is. It would have been a pity, indeed, to have lost it after all our trouble."

As we drew alongside the French boat, Hamilton whispered to Frances:—

"You have nothing to fear from the king. This affair shows him in a light so ridiculous that he will not care to make it public, and besides, he will not want to return the hundred thousand pounds. You will be safe in London, and I shall write to you just as soon as I return to France. If King Louis's reward proves to be what I expect, I pray you come to me, for, after this affair, I dare not set my foot in England."

At that moment we touched the other boat, and the Frenchmen grappled us to hold us alongside. George had risen and was about to step aboard, when Frances, catching him by the arm, drew him back and sprang aboard the French boat ahead of him, saying:—

"I shall not wait for a letter. I am going with you now."

George followed her into the other boat, and as it drew away, I saw him bending low to kiss her hand. Then he shouted "Good-by!" and soon we could see nothing but the black water between us.

Betty began to weep, and after a moment I began to swear, for I did not like to see my cousin go off in this manner. De Grammont relieved his mind by a shrug of his shoulders, took the oar that George had abandoned, and without a word we started up-stream again.



CHAPTER XIV

HER LADYSHIP'S SMILE

We landed at the Old Swan stairs below the Bridge on Lower Thames Street, and went to the end of the Bridge, where De Grammont waited till I had taken Bettina home.

When I returned to the Bridge, the count and I took coach, and after a rapid journey across silent London, I arrived at the palace just as Old Tom of Westminster was striking eleven.

I climbed over the porch to my closet and reached there none too soon, for I was hardly in bed when my door opened and in walked the king followed by two men bearing candles. I pretended to be in a deep sleep and when aroused sprang from my bed seemingly half dazed and ready to defend myself, till the king spoke, when, of course, I was humble enough.

"How long have you been here?" demanded the king.

"All night I suppose, your Majesty; what time is it now?"

"Past eleven!" the king answered.

"In what may I serve your Majesty?" I asked.

"By telling me the truth!" he said, glaring at me and whining out his words. "Do you know anything about the attack on my closet this evening?"

Nothing is ever gained by denying, so I took a leaf from woman's logic, and answered his question by another.

"An attack on your Majesty's closet?" I cried. Then after a long pause, and with a manner of deep injury, I demanded: "Has anything untoward befallen my cousin? I carried out your Majesty's instructions without objection or protest. I intrusted her to your care, and it is my right and my duty to demand an account of her and to hold your Majesty responsible for her welfare."

He looked at me for a moment with a hang-dog expression on his face, but he could not stand my gaze, so he turned on his heel and left the room without another word.

He was not convinced of my guilt, nor would he believe me innocent. Evidently the royal verdict was "not proven." But in any case I knew that my favor at court was at an end.

During the next week I constantly importuned the king to tell me what had become of my cousin, and intimated my intention to make trouble in terms so plain—for I knew the king's favor was lost to me—that my Lord Clarendon was instructed to offer me a sum of money to say nothing more about the matter. I agreed to accept the money, it was paid, and I remained silent.

Frequently the difference between an acted lie and a spoken lie is the difference between success and failure. Then, too, the acted lie has this advantage; there is no commandment against it. We should congratulate ourselves that so many pleasant sins were omitted on Sinai.

At the end of a week after our great adventure I went to the country, and within a fortnight returned to find that my place in the Wardrobe was taken by another, and my place in the king's smile by the world at large; at least, it was lost to me.

When a wise courtier loses his king's smile, he takes himself out of his king's reach. Therefore I cast about in my mind for a London friend who would like to possess my title. I thought of Sir William Wentworth, rather of his wife, and suggested to her that for the sum of thirty thousand pounds I would resign my estates and title to the king, if Sir William would arrange for their transfer to himself. The transfer directly from me to him was not within the limits of the law. It could only be made through the king by forfeiture and grant. But the like had happened many times before, and could be accomplished now if the king were compensated for his trouble.

Wentworth broached the subject to our august sovereign who, in consideration of the sum of ten thousand pounds "lent" by Sir William to his Majesty, and because he was glad to conciliate a prominent citizen of London, that city being very angry on account of the sale of Dunkirk, agreed to the transfer, and the baronetcy of Clyde with the appurtenant estates passed to the house of Wentworth, where, probably, they brought trouble to Sir William and joyous discontent to his aspiring lady.

Aside from the fact that I knew the king's ill temper was cumulative, I had received a hint, coming through Castlemain's maid to Rochester, that if I remained in England, the king would despoil me. Then, too, I had other reasons for making the sale. I was sick of England's fawning on a poor weak creature, as cowardly as he was dull, and almost as dull as he was vicious, and longed to flee to the despotism of strength as I should find it in France under Louis XIV. There was still another reason, of which I shall speak later.

Three days after the consummation of my sale to Sir William Wentworth, Count Hamilton returned, and, learning of the manner in which I had disgraced myself, withdrew his challenge, sending De Grammont to tell me the sad news. He would not honor me by killing me.

"Why did you sell your title and estates?" asked De Grammont.

"I have several good reasons, my dear count," I answered. "The first is that I should have lost them had I not sold them. While the king does not know that I was connected with the fight on the privy stairs, he doubtless suspected it, for I have lived in the royal frown ever since. The second reason is that I hate Charles Stuart, and, admiring at least the strength of your king's tyranny, desire to live in France. King Louis says he is the state, and by heaven, he is! Charles Stuart knows that he is nothing, and he is right!"

"Give me your hand, baron!" cried De Grammont, a smile of satisfaction spreading over his face. "I now tell you my secret. No one else knows it. The purchase of Dunkirk has bought for me the smile of my master. I have been recalled to Versailles. I return to La Belle France within a fortnight! Come with me! I'll show you a king in very deed, and promise furthermore that his smile shall be for you!"

"I can't go with you, my dear count," I returned gratefully. "But I promise to see you soon in Paris. I suppose you will take with you the elder Mistress Hamilton, to whom I understand you have long been plighted in marriage, or will you return for her?"

"O-o-oh! Return for her, dear baron, return for her!" answered the count, shrugging his shoulders.

To close the chapter of De Grammont's life in England, I would say that he kept the secret of his recall to France, and one night after dark left his house near the Mall, taking a coach to Dover without saying to Mistress Hamilton when he would return.

But Mistress Hamilton had two brothers still in England, Count Anthony and James, who, catching wind of De Grammont's exodus, took horse and a small escort, made all possible speed, and came up with De Grammont's coach some six or eight leagues east of London.

Count Anthony rode up to one door of the coach, while James brought his horse to the other.

"Good morning, count," said Anthony, bending down to the coach window.

"Good morning, my dear count," returned De Grammont, blandly.

"Is there not something you have forgotten, count?" asked Anthony.

"Odds fish! Yes! I forgot to marry your sister," answered De Grammont, appropriating the king's oath, and apparently astounded at his own forgetfulness. "Thank you, dear count, for reminding me. I'll go back to London and do it at once."

"Your parole?" asked Anthony.

"Yes, the word of a De Grammont," answered the count, whereupon the Hamiltons lifted their hats and galloped home, knowing certainly that De Grammont would follow.

De Grammont reached London soon after sun-up, and, true to his word, married Miss Hamilton, blessed his stars ever afterward for having done so, and gave her no cause for unhappiness save a French one.

Soon after the sale to Wentworth, I received a letter from George telling me that King Louis had not only made him rich, but had appointed him Governor of Dunkirk, with promise of further advancement. George said, also, that the French king, having heard of my part in the Dunkirk transaction and my disgrace with my king, had offered to advance my interest if I would go to France. In a postscript to the letter, which was much longer than the letter itself, Frances told me how she and George had been married immediately on landing in France, and were living very happily in Paris, where they would remain until George should take up the government of Dunkirk.

So it had all fallen out just as one might have expected to find it in a story-book. George had been proved by Fortune's touchstone, and her Ladyship had chosen him for her smile. He had won the long odds.

What remains to be told is simply the denouement of my own affairs.

* * * * *

At the time of my transaction with Wentworth I said nothing to Bettina about the sale of my title and estates, but when I heard that our friends were safe and happy in France, I went down to the Old Swan, with more fear than I should have thought possible, to broach a certain matter, which was very near my heart, to Betty and her father.

I knew that in so far as Betty herself was concerned, I should find no trouble, but I also knew that I might find difficulty in persuading her to leave her father, for duty was a tremendous word in Betty's vocabulary.

When I reached the Old Swan, policy and fear each told me that it would be safer to attack Betty and her father separately. The odds of two against one, in this case, I feared would be too great for me to overcome. So I led Betty to her parlor,—rather she led me,—and after a preliminary skirmish, I told her I had come to see her on a most important piece of business.

"I'm glad to see you, whatever brings you, Baron Ned," she answered, smoothing out her skirts in anticipation of an interesting budget of news.

"But I'm no longer 'Baron Ned,' Betty," I informed her.

She asked a hundred questions with her eyes and eyebrows, and I hastily answered them by telling of the sale to Wentworth.

"Ah, I'm so sorry," she answered, "and I'm so glad, too, that I could cry. You don't seem so much above me nor so far away."

"That was my chief reason for selling my title and estates," I answered, reaching forward and taking her hand, which for the first time she did not withdraw. "I sold them, Betty, for a large price, but my reason for so doing was one that could not be measured by money. I want you for my wife, Betty, and my title, at least, stood between us. I should have given it away if I could not have sold it, because I want you, Betty, more than anything else in all the world."

"Ah, please don't, Baron Ned!" she cried, bringing her handkerchief to her eyes. "It can't be. I'm not so selfish as to take you at your word."

I was sitting on the cushioned bench by the wall, and she was in a chair facing me, within easy reach, so I caught her wrists and drew her to me, whispering:—

"Sit here, Bettina, by my side, and tell me why it cannot be, for I pledge you my honor I am not to be denied." She resisted for a moment, but at last sat down beside me, and I put my arm about her, despite her fluttering struggle. "Now, tell me why, Bettina. I need not tell you that you have my love. You know it without the telling."

She nodded her head "Yes," and covered her face with her hands.

"And am I wrong in believing that I possess your love?" I asked.

She shook her head to indicate that I was not wrong, and the little gesture was as good as an oath to me. After her confession, she would not dare to resist me, nor did she, save to say pleadingly:—

"Please, Baron Ned, it cannot be."

Tears were trickling down her cheeks, and I could see that she was in great trouble.

"I do not ask you to come to me now," I said, "but you may take a long time, if you wish—a day, or two, or even three, if you insist. But Betty, I am not to be refused, and you may as well understand now and for all that you are to be my wife. But tell me, Betty, what is your reason for denying me at this time?"

She dried her eyes, sat erect, and answered in a voice full of tears: "Well, you are so far above me that the time might come when you would be ashamed of me."

"Nothing of the sort, Betty. Drop that argument at once. You know you do not mean it. You are not speaking the exact truth. There is no sweetness, no beauty, like yours."

"Do you really mean it, Baron Ned?" she answered, smiling up to me.

"Yes, yes, every word and a thousand more," I answered.

"But I am so unworthy," she said.

"You're pretending, Betty," I answered, and I argued so well that she abandoned her position.

"Now, give me another reason, Betty," I demanded, feeling encouraged by the success of my first bout. To this she answered with great hesitancy, murmuring her words almost inaudibly:—

"I could not leave father."

That was the reason I had feared, and when I drew away from her, showing my great disappointment in my face, she took one of my hands in both of hers, saying:—

"Not that I should not be happy to go with you anywhere, but you see I am all the world to father. He would die without me."

Here, of course, I might expect tears, nor was I disappointed. I, too, found the tears coming to my eyes, for her grief touched me keenly, and her love for her father showed me even more plainly than I had ever before known the unselfish tenderness of the girl I so longed to possess. It was hard for me to speak against this argument of hers; for it was like finding fault with the best part of her, so for a little time we were silent. After a minute or two, she glanced up to me and, seeing my great trouble, murmured brokenly:—

"If you think I am worth waiting for, and if you will wait till father is gone, I will go with you, and your smallest and greatest wish alike shall be mine. And when you become ashamed of me, I'll—"

"I'll not wait, Betty," I answered, ignoring the latter half of her remark. "I have a far better plan. I am going to France, and you and your father shall go with me."

"Ah, will you take him?" she cried, falling to the floor on her knees, creeping between mine, and clasping her hands about my neck. Her sweet, warm breath came to me like a waft from a field of roses, the fluffy shreds of her hair tingled my cheek, thrilling me to the heart, while the touch of her hand and the clasp of her arm carried me to heaven.

Then she laid her head on my breast, her lips came close to mine, and she murmured with a sigh:—

"Now, Baron Ned, as you will."

I told Betty to call Pickering, and when he came in I related my story. I told him how Betty and I were of one mind, how George had prospered in France and had invited me to share his good fortune, how I wanted to go to France and to take Bettina with me, and how I wanted him to sell the Old Swan and go with us to the fair land across the Channel, where his wealth would give him station such as he deserved.

Immediately he objected, saying that the scheme was impossible. He said that he could sell the Old Swan for a great sum to Robbins, of the Dog's Head, and that all he possessed, aside from the inn, was in gold, lodged with Backwell, but for all that, my plan could not be considered for a moment.

"My dear Pickering, hear my side of the case," I insisted, determined to win this last bout as I had won the others. "You love your daughter and would be unhappy if she were to leave you alone in the world?"

"Indeed I should be," he answered firmly. "I will not consider your suggestion. I will not. I will not."

"She is more generous than you," I returned, "and refuses to leave you, though she would be very unhappy if you force her to remain."

"I suppose you think so," he replied sullenly.

"I know so," I answered, "and can prove it by Betty." Betty nodded her head "Yes," and I continued: "You will not be unhappy in France with us. You will be happy. Yet you refuse to be happy save in your own stubborn way, even though you bring grief to the tenderest heart in the world. But come, come, Pickering! This will not do! I tell you, I'm not to be refused!"

Pickering lapsed into stubborn silence, and as there is no arguing with a man who will not argue, I determined to take another course; so I spoke sharply:—

"Since you will not be reasonable, I have another plan to suggest: I will give up my prospects of fortune in France, and will live here in this rotten Old Swan as long as you live, never taking Betty from your side. If you do not give her to me under these conditions, I will take her away without any conditions. Eh, Betty?"

Betty hung in the wind for a moment, then nodded slowly:—

"Yes."

Pickering covered his face with his hands for a moment, then looked up to me and asked:—

"Would you do that, baron? Would you come down from your high estate to our lowly condition for the sake of my poor little girl?"

"Yes, Pickering," I answered.

Then after a moment's thought, he said: "I'll sell the Old Swan and go with you to France."

Betty took my hand, then she grasped her father's, drew him down to her and kissed him.

So Betty and I were married in the little chapel at the Southwark end of London Bridge, and off we went to our friends in France, where God blessed us and we were very happy. We had all been tried by the Touchstone of Fortune, and had won her Ladyship's smile! May God comfort those on whom she frowns!



NOTE

Baron Clyde seems to be the only writer of the period of Charles II who mentions the part taken by George Hamilton and Frances Jennings in the sale of the city of Dunkirk, but, of course, the particulars of that disgraceful affair would have been kept a secret from all save those who participated in it.

It is said that Nell Gwynn, John Churchill, and Sarah Jennings were younger than Baron Clyde indicates. Therefore there are many discerning persons who hold that he was "idealizing" when he wrote of them being at court at the time Dunkirk was sold.

There appears to be some ground for the criticism.

But in all essential respects the baron's history is held, justly, to be true to facts and conditions, and that, after all, is the main thing. Exact truth is evasive; therefore the virtues of approximation are not to be deprecated.

THE END