"Mistress Jennings is mistaken. She does not know me, nor have I the honor of knowing the king's new favorite."

Here Betty cut the conversation short by saying: "I'll fetch a barber-surgeon, while father takes you to a room."

"You'll do nothing of the sort for me," objected Hamilton. "My wounds are mere scratches. I'll go to the pump. It is the only surgeon I shall need.

Fetch a barber for the men on the floor there."

George went to the pump in the courtyard, followed by Betty, after whom came Nelly and Frances. Betty was proceeding to wash George's wounds, when Nelly offered to take the towel from her hand, but the girl refused with a touch of anger, saying:--

"Please do not interfere, Mistress Gwynn. You and the d.u.c.h.ess stood by gaping while he was fighting to protect you. He would have been dead by now if he had waited for help from either of you. I advise you to leave the Old Swan, but don't forget to pay your bill to the barboy."

"Never mind the bill," said Pickering, who was at the pump handle. "But please take my daughter's advice and go."

"Go where you may find guinea linen. Persons of your quality make too much trouble at the Old Swan," interposed Betty, who was not in a good temper.

At first Nelly was inclined to resent Betty's sharp words, but in a moment she returned softly:--

"You're right, girl. You have earned the privilege to scold."

"And please forgive us," said Frances, to which Betty did not reply.

"Where are your wounds?" asked Nelly, addressing George. "Off with your clothes and let us see."

"Not here, Nelly, not here," he answered, bending over the tub in front of the pump. "My wounds are mere trifles. Only a scratch or two on the scalp and a pink or two on the arms. Take Betty's advice. Leave at once.

This is no place for your friend. The society of our virtuous monarch doubtless will be far more congenial."

Nelly hesitated, and George, seeing that Frances was about to speak, turned upon her, almost angrily:--

"Please go before greater trouble comes. I could not hold out for another fight. I am almost finished. Let the king fight the battles of his friends. The ruffian that escaped will return with re-enforcements, and I am not able to fight them again."

"Oh, but she is not the king's friend, as you suppose, as my idle words might lead you to believe," returned Nelly, pleadingly.

George rose from the tub over which he was standing and answered: "Show your grat.i.tude for what I have done by going at once."

Seeing that George was in earnest, Nelly left the courtyard, leading reluctant Frances by the hand. Hamilton's supposed crime had been forgotten, and I believe would have been forgiven had he permitted Frances the opportunity at that time.

When Frances and Nelly reached the street, Frances said, "I must see him again to tell him that I am not--"

"What I am," interrupted Nelly. "Do not fear to speak plainly. I am content with myself. But I shall take measures at once to convince George that you are what you are. I'll set you right with him."

"I'll return and explain for myself," insisted Frances.

"He will refuse to hear you. If you wish, I'll leave you at the barge and go back to explain to him."

Frances consenting, they went back to the barge, and Nelly, returning to the tavern, sought Betty. Hamilton was not to be seen, and in reply to Nelly's inquiries, Betty told her that he had fainted at the pump and had been taken upstairs to a room.

"His wounds are deeper than he supposed," said Betty, "and the loss of blood has been very great. We have sent for a surgeon."

"I'll go to see him," said Nelly.

"No," returned Betty, shaking her head emphatically. "Father says that fever may set in, and that Master Hamilton must not be disturbed. You cannot see him."

"Have your way, Betty," answered good-natured Nell. "And Betty dear, I was only teasing you about the table linen."

"I understand. Just a little sport with the barmaid," returned Betty, a note of sarcasm ringing sharply in her usually soft voice.

"Yes, Betty. I'm sorry. Forgive me. Here are two guineas."

"I don't want them," answered Betty, clasping her hands behind her.

"Again forgive me," said Nelly. "I have been wrong altogether in my opinion of you. You are a good, beautiful girl, and I'm coming back to see you very soon."

"Please don't come on my account, Mistress Gwynn," returned Betty.

"No, I shall come on my account," replied Nell, coaxingly. "I'll go now for fear of making more trouble for you, but I intend to be your friend, and you shall be mine. When Nelly makes up her mind to have a friend, she always has her way. Good-by, Betty."

Betty courtesied, and Nelly left the Old Swan, returning at once to Frances, who was waiting in the barge. On their way back to the palace neither Frances nor Nelly spoke after Nelly had told what she had heard at the inn. Usually Nelly was laughing or talking, or both, and when a woman of her temperament is silent, she is thinking. In this instance her thinking brought her to two conclusions: first, that Hamilton was the man Frances loved and hated; and second, that it was his face she had recognized on the night Roger Wentworth was killed.

The dangerous element in these calculations was that they were sure to reach the king's ear as soon as Nelly found an opportunity to impart them. It were treason to withhold from his Majesty such a tearing bit of scandal. She had no reason to suspect that the telling of what had happened and of what she had deduced would bring trouble to Frances and George. She simply knew that the king would be vastly pleased with the story, and her only purpose in life was to give him pleasure. How well she pleased him in this instance and the result of her innocent effort to make him happy will soon appear.

The day after the adventure of Frances and Nelly at the Old Swan, I had business with Backwell, the goldsmith, and when I had disposed of my matters, I walked over to the Old Swan near by to eat a grilled lobster, a dish for which the inn was famous. I knew nothing of the trouble that had occurred the day before, not having seen my cousin, nor did I know that Hamilton was in London, not having seen nor heard from him since Frances's arrival at court.

By far my greatest motive in going to the Old Swan was to see Betty, whose beauty and sweetness had begun to haunt me about that time.

If Mary Hamilton had shown me the least evidence of warmth, my admiration for Bettina, perhaps, would have remained merely admiration. But in view of Mary's admirable self-control, I found myself falling into a method of thought morally then prevalent with all modish men. I confess with shame that I hoped to have Mary for my wife and Bettina to love me and to be loved. I did not know Betty then, and have regretted all my life that once I looked upon her as--well, as a barmaid. While I thoroughly realized that she was an unusual girl in many respects, still I held to a theory then prevalent that barmaids were created to be kissed.

When I reached the Old Swan, I chose a table in a remote corner of the tap-room, ordered a lobster from one of the maids, and, while waiting for it, drank a cup of wormwood wine.

The place seemed dingy and drear with its great ceiling beams of time-darkened oak, its long, narrow windows of small square panes, its black fireplace, lifeless without the flames, and its dark, grim mahogany bar stretching halfway across the south side of the room. The white floor, well sanded and polished, seemed only to accentuate the general gloom, and the great clock, ticking solemnly behind the bar, seemed to be marking time for a funeral dirge. But suddenly all changed to brightness when Betty entered. Pickering was talking to me, standing between me and the girl, so that she did not see me when she first came into the room.

She stepped behind the bar for some purpose and called to her father, who started to go to her, but before he reached her she looked up and saw me.

In a moment she was by my side, smiling and dimpling in a manner fit to set the heart of an anchorite a-thumping.

"I came for a lobster, Betty," I said, taking her hand, "and to see you.

I was afraid you might forget me."

"The Old Swan is likely to forget you, Baron Ned," she answered, withdrawing her hand, "if you don't come to see us oftener."

"Ah, Betty, you're a mercenary bit of flesh and blood. Always looking out for customers," I returned, shaking my head.

"Yes," she replied, laughing softly. "And--and very sorry when certain customers come so seldom."

Had she spoken glibly, her words would have meant nothing, but there was a hesitancy, a pretty fluttering in her manner which pleased me, so I was emboldened to say:--

"I hope I am one of the 'certain customers,' Betty."

Again she laughed softly, as she answered, "Yes, Baron Ned, _the_ certain one."

"Do you mean, Betty, that I am the 'certain one' for the Old Swan or for Betty?" I asked.

She was standing near me, and I again caught her hand, but it was not a part of Betty's programme to be questioned too closely, so she withdrew her hand, saying, "I must go."