BARBARA DANCES THE CORANTO
alone in the garden to the man who brings her Nick Rawlings’ pardon from the King.”
“The cutpurse?”
“The very same. She says ’tis an old man and ill fit to die upon the scaffold.”
“Pardieu!” said Mornay, casting a swift glance at her train of followers. “She’s more cruel to her lovers than to her poor.”
Cornbury laughed. “I’ faith, so far as she’s concerned, they’re one and the same, I’m thinking. A stroke of janius, Mornay! Have yourself but thrown into prison, and you may win her, after all.”
He moved away. Mornay looked around him for this scornful mistress, but she had gone into the garden with Captain Ferrers.
“Mordieu!” he growled. “There’s truth in that jest. In prison I’ll be, soon enough, unless the King—” He paused, with a curious smile. “The King—aha! I’ve a better use for Charles than that,” and he made his way to the retiring-room, where his lackey, Vigot, resplendent in a yellow coat and black waistcoat, was awaiting his orders.
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