“Whither should I go hence?” asked the other.  “The news of Ireland is hardly such as to give colour to Ormonde’s invitation.”

“I have told you what to do, sir, but got small thanks for my pains.  Think on it well.  Now, by your leave I must attend to affairs of my own.  May I find you in a wiser mood when I return!”

“Farewell, then, Tom,” said Charles.  “But beware of poaching on a Jersey manor!”

“There are no game laws here, or if there be the keeper is away.”  With these words Elliot retired with a careless bow, and the king waved his hand gaily as he disappeared.

The forward young man bent his way, as often before, in the direction of Maufant.  On entering the garden he saw the lady of the manor—­a rose among the roses, as Malherbe might have said.  The moment she perceived Elliot she stood sternly, and with dilated eye before the entry of the house, as if to bar the way, the united blazon of her husband’s ancestors and her own appearing above her head like a crest of battle.

“Why so stern, fair lady?” demanded the courtier, saluting her, “And why alone?”

“My sister is not here,” said Mme. de Maufant, answering but the second of Elliot’s questions.  “She has spoken with you for the last time, Mr. Elliot.  I hope that I too have the same advantage.  You should go home, Monsieur, to your wife.”

Elliot started, but quickly recovering himself, said, with an insolent smile, “Always thinking of marriage, these dear creatures.  Ah, ah! madame, sits the wind in that quarter?  You thought the poor Scots gentleman might be caught by the rosy cheeks of a Jersey farm girl. Pas si bete.”

Rose pointed to the garden archway.  “If you do not relieve me of your presence this very instant,” she said, pale and panting, “my farm labourers shall drive you out with cudgels.”

“It shall not need, madame, to pay me this last attention, so worthy of your habits.  ‘Au revoir, madame!’” And with a profound and mocking reverence the wanton cavalier slowly retreated, leaving Rose to sink, half fainting, into a stone seat by the house door.

Elliot strode off, smarting with the sting of his well-merited humiliation.  A brief moment of reflection was enough to show its probable origin.  It was evident that the secret of his marriage had found its way to the manor, where the court he had been paying to Marguerite had consequently ceased to be regarded as a harmless gallantry, and come to be taken for insult, as indeed it deserved.  Nor was it difficult to go on to guess the channel of this information.  Le Gallais was Marguerite’s acknowledged lover, the person who would benefit by the removal of a fascinating dog like Elliot—­a formidable rival, as he flattered himself such as he must be to a bumpkin officer of militia.  How Le Gallais could have learned the fact of his having a wife in France might be a harder question, but it was one that was not material.  Revenge would be equally sweet, whether that were answered or not.