“And the colonel ought to know, methinks, if any man doth,” Elias Crundy observed. “But why don’t his Majesty come to the Grange? Our master could soon hire him a fishing-smack at New-haven or Shoreham to carry him across the Channel.”
“That’s more easily said than done, Elias,” Eustace Saxby rejoined. “No one is allowed to embark at any port along the coast without special licence. And as to the Grange being a safe hiding-place, I’m very doubtful about it. Only yesterday, I heard from a Brightelmstone Jug, whom I met at Rottingdean Gap, that a troop of old Noll’s terrible Ironsides, under Captain Stelfax, have arrived at Lewes; and that all houses in the neighbourhood, suspected of harbouring fugitive Royalists, are to be strictly searched by ’em—the Grange one of the first.”
“Lord presarve us from these ravenous wolves and regicides!” Crundy exclaimed. “That be bad news, indeed! But I hope it ben’t true.”
“I’m afeardt yo’n find it o’er true, Elias,” Nut Springett remarked, shaking his head.
“I’ve heard John Habergeon speak of Captain Stelfax,” Giles Moppett said; “and a bloody and barbarous rebel he must be, from John’s account. He goes to work at once with thumbscrew and boot—thumbscrew and boo—d’ye mind that, my masters? If he comes here we shall all be put to the torture.”
“And if we be, the truculent Roundhead shall discover nothing,” Eustace Saxby cried, resolutely. “Let him do his worst. He will learn what stuff a loyal Sussex yeoman is made of. If thy black jack ben’t empty, prithee fill up the horn, Elias. I would fain drink a health, which Master Moppett tells me was drunk in the dining-hall last night—soon after young master’s return.”
“Drink it under thy breath then, Eustace,” Moppett observed; “there be spies about, and no saying who may overhear thee.”
“In that case, I’ll drink confusion to the king’s enemies! and may his Majesty soon enjoy his Own again!” the falconer exclaimed aloud, emptying the foaming horn offered him by Crundy.
Ninian Saxby took no part in the foregoing discourse. After quaffing a horn of humming ale with the rest, he began to wind a call upon his bugle that made the walls of the old house echo to the cheerful notes. Perhaps this might have been intended as a signal, for as he sauntered towards the porch, who should issue from it but Patty Whinchat!
“Give you good day, sweetheart,” quoth Ninian, gallantly doffing his cap. “How blithe and bonny you do look this morning, fegs! Now for a well-turned phrase to tickle her ears withal,” he added to himself. “You look for all the world like a newly-roused tercel-gentle—the tercel is the falcon’s mate, Patty, and the falcon is a hawk for a prince—when after mantling, as we falconers term it, she crosseth her wings over her back, and disposeth herself to warble.”
“To warble!” the handmaiden exclaimed. “Lawk a mercy! I never yet heard that a hawk doth sing.”
“Neither doth she, Patty; but she warbleth, nevertheless—that is to say, she sitteth erect as yon tartaret doth on my father’s fist. Dost know what ‘coming to the lure’means, Patty? If not, I will teach thee—I will, fegs!”
“Nay, I know well enough,” she rejoined, “and I would have you know, in return, that I am not to be lured, like a silly bird, by the call of a cunning falconer, or by the tinkling of silver bells. If you must whistle for some one, let it be at Morefruit Stone’s door, and I warrant you his daughter Temperance, Puritan though she be, will come forth quickly. The luring-bells may be tried with Dorcas Thatcher, the milkmaid.”
“You are like a raking musket, Patty, that forsakes her proper game, and flyeth at daw, or pie, or any other bird that chances to cross her. I, Ninian, am thy quarry—I am, fegs! Thou shalt bind me, and plume me, and truss me, if thou wilt.”
“A truce to this nonsense, sirrah,” she rejoined. “Be serious for a moment, if you can, and attend to me. There is something strange going on in the house. I can’t make it out, for Mistress Dulcia won’t admit me into her confidence.”