BARBARA DANCES THE CORANTO
“’Tis an intrusion, monsieur,” she began, her breast heaving. Mornay had drawn from his laces the pardon of Nick Rawlings. Before she could finish he had opened the paper and handed it towards her.
“It is the pardon, madame.”
That was all he said. But the crimson seal of the crown, dangling from its cords, caught her eye, and, half bewildered, she glanced down over the writing.
“Clemency—thief—murderer—Nick Rawlings—pardon?—a pardon for me, monsieur?”
Monsieur Mornay showed his white teeth as he smiled.
“Madame forgets her promise of the coranto. Voilà! Here is the pardon. There is the musique. Will madame not dance?”
A silence had fallen upon those within earshot, and not a couple took the floor for the dance. His grace of Dorset looked serious. Sir Henry Heywood thrust himself into the circle. But the music tinkled bravely, and Monsieur Mornay still stood there, awaiting her reply.
21
