BARBARA DANCES THE CORANTO
at the very least. Here is what you ask. I have no more favors to give. Leave London at once, for when the post from France arrives, I cannot help you.—C.”
Mornay looked at it curiously, with pursed lips and loose fingers, and then rather a bitter smile came over his features. “’Twas too strong a test of his fellowship,” he muttered; “too strong for his friendship even.”
He shoved the document among his laces and moved to the gallery, where the gentlemen were choosing their partners for the coranto. He sought the Duke at once. His grace was standing near Mistress Barbara’s chair, watching with amusement a discussion of the rival claims of the Earl of St. Albans and Captain Ferrers upon her clemency for the dance.
“Your grace,” said Mornay, “I claim your promise. I am for the coranto.”
“With la belle Barbara? My word, Mornay, you are incurable.”
“A disease, monsieur; I think fatal.” Mistress Barbara beamed upon the Duke. Fer-
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