"You know the d.u.c.h.ess of Portsmouth, and where she lives?" artfully inquired Nell.

"Portsmouth!" he repeated, excitedly. "She was here but now, peeping at your windows."

Nell stood aghast. Her face grew pale, and her lips trembled.

"Here, here!" she exclaimed, incredulously. "The imported hussy!"

She turned hotly upon Strings, as she had upon poor Moll, with an array of questions which almost paralyzed the old fiddler's wits. "How looks she? What colour eyes? Does her lip arch? How many inches span her waist?"

Strings looked cautiously about, then whispered in Nell's ear. He might as well have talked to all London; for Nell, in her excitement, repeated his words at the top of her voice.

"You overheard? Great Heavens! Drug the King and win the rights of England while he is in his cups? Bouillon--the army--Louis--the Dutch! A conspiracy!"

"Oh, dear; oh, dear," came from Moll's trembling lips.

Nell's wits were like lightning playing with the clouds. Her plans were formed at once.

"Fly, fly, comrade," she commanded Strings. "Overtake her chair. Tell the d.u.c.h.ess that her beloved Charles--she will understand--entreats her to sup at Ye Blue Boar Inn, within the hour. Nay, she will be glad enough to come. Say he awaits her alone. Run, run, good Strings, and you shall have a hospital to nurse these wounds, as big as Noah's ark; and the King shall build it for the message."

Strings hastened down the path, fired by Nell's inspiration, with almost the eagerness of a boy.

"Run, run!" cried Nell, in ecstasy, as she looked after him and dwelt gleefully upon the outcome of her plans.

He disappeared through the trees.

"Heigh-ho!" she said, with a light-hearted step. "Now, Moll, we'll get our first sight of the enemy."

She darted into the house, dragging poor Moll after her.

CHAPTER VIII

_"And the man that is drunk is as great as a king."_

An old English inn! What spot on earth is more hospitable, even though its floor be bare and its tables wooden? There is a homely atmosphere about it, with its cobwebbed rafters, its dingy windows, its big fireplace, where the rough logs crackle, and its musty ale. It has ever been a home for the belated traveller, where the viands, steaming hot, have filled his soul with joy. Oh, the Southdown mutton and the roasts of beef!

If England has given us naught else, she should be beloved for her wealth of inns, with their jolly landlords and their pert bar-maids and their lawns for the game of bowls. May our children's children find them still unchanged.

In a quaint corner of London, there stood such an inn, in the days of which we speak; and it lives in our story. When it was built, no one knew and none cared. Tradition said that it had been a rendezvous for convivial spirits for ages that had gone. A sign hung from the door, on which was a boar's head; and under it, in Old English lettering, might have been deciphered, if the reader had the wit to read, "Ye Blue Boar Inn."

It was the evening of a certain day, known to us all, in the reign of good King Charles. Three yesty spirits sat convivially enjoying the warmth of the fire upon the huge hearth. A keg was braced in the centre of the room. One of the merry crew--none other, indeed, than Swallow, a constable to the King--sat astride the cask, Don Quixote-like. In place of the dauntless lance, he was armed with a st.u.r.dy mug of good old ale.

He sang gaily to a tune of his own, turning ever and anon for approbation to Buzzard, another spirit of like guild, who sat in a semi-maudlin condition by the table, and also to the moon-faced landlord of the inn, who encouraged the joviality of his guests--not forgetting to count the cups which they demolished.

Swallow sang:

_"Here's a health unto his Majesty, with a fa, la, fa, Conversion to his enemies with a fa, la, fa, And he that will not pledge his health, I wish him neither wit nor wealth, Nor yet a rope to hang himself-- With a fa, la, fa, With a fa, la, fa."_

The song ended in a triumphant wave of glory. The singer turned toward the fellow, Buzzard, and demanded indignantly:

"Why don't ye sing, knave, to the tune of the spigot?"

"My gullet's dry, Master Constable," stupidly explained his companion, as he too buried his face in the ale.

"Odsbud, thou knowest not the art, thou clod," retorted the constable, wisely.

"Nay; I can sing as well as any man," answered Buzzard, indignantly, "an I know when to go up and when to come down." He pointed stupidly, contrary to the phrase, first to the floor and then to the ceiling.

The landlord chuckled merrily, imitating him. "When to go up and when to come down!" he repeated with the same idiotic drawl and contradictory gesture.

"Go to, simple," replied Swallow, with tremendous condescension of manner. "Thy mother gave thee a gullet but no ear. Pa.s.s the schnapps."

He arose and staggered to the table.

"Good Master Constable, how singest thou?" sheepishly inquired Buzzard, as he filled Swallow's tankard for the twentieth time.

"Marry, by main force, thou jack-pudding; how else?" demanded Swallow, pompously. He reseated himself with much effort astride the cask. "Oh, bury me here," he continued, looking into the foaming mug, and then buried his face deep in the ale.

His companions were well pleased with the toast; for each repeated it after him, each in his turn emphasizing the "me" and the "here"--"Oh, bury _me here!"_ "Oh, bury _me here!_"--Buzzard in a voice many tones deeper than that of Swallow and the landlord in a voice many tones deeper than that of Buzzard. Indeed, the guttural tones of the landlord bespoke the grave-yard.

The three faces were lost in the foam; the three sets of lips smacked in unison; and the world might have wagged as it would for these three jolly topers but for a woman's voice, calling sharply from the kitchen:

"Jenkins, love!"

"Body o' me!" exclaimed the landlord, almost dropping his empty tankard.

"Coming, coming, my dear!" and he departed hastily.

The constable poked Buzzard in the ribs; Buzzard poked the constable in the ribs.

"Jenkins, love!" they exclaimed in one breath as the landlord returned, much to his discomfiture; and their eyes twinkled and wrinkled as they poked fun at the taverner.

"Body o' me! Thou sly dog!" said the constable, as he continued to twit him. "Whence came the saucy wench in the kitchen, landlord? A dimpled cook, eh?"

The landlord's face grew serious with offended dignity as he attempted to explain.

"'Tis my wife, Master Constable," he said.

"Marry, the new one?" inquired Swallow.

"'Tis not the old one, Master Swallow," replied the old hypocrite, wiping away a forced tear. "Poor soul, she's gone, I know not where."

"I' faith, I trow she's still cooking, landlord," consolingly replied the constable, with tearful mien, pointing slyly downward for the benefit of Buzzard and steadying himself with difficulty on the cask.

"Bless Matilde," said the landlord as he wiped his eyes again, "I had a hard time to fill her place."

"Yea, truly," chuckled Swallow in Buzzard's ear, between draughts, "three long months from grave to altar."