Wheezy old Noah on the box cracked his whip, the fat horses in the traces pulled and grunted, the coach creaked and groaned, the wheels turned and Frances had set forth, a maiden St. George, to fight the dragon of Whitehall, compared to which the old-time monster was but a bleating lamb.  Roger had hoped to be in his brother’s house long before sundown, but when he reached that justly famous halfway house, the Cock and Spur, Noah insisted that the fat horses were so badly winded that a rest of several hours was necessary before they could proceed a step farther.  Roger argued with his Master of Horse, but to no purpose.  The fat horses rested till near the hour of five, when Noah yielded to his master’s importunities and the journey was resumed.  Meantime an unexpected rain had begun to fall, which increased in violence as night approached.  The road grew heavier as the journey progressed, and the wheezy horses required rest so frequently that Roger began to fear for the safety of his gold and his fair passenger.

Supper time approached, but Roger was so anxious to reach London before dark that he asserted his right as master and refused to stop at an inn where Noah had drawn up the horses, insisting that they be fed.  Considerable time was lost in argument with Noah, but at last they took the road once more, which by that time had become very heavy.  Night fell without twilight, because of the storm, and the travellers were overtaken by darkness just as they reached the most dangerous part of the road within less than a league of London.

The road grew heavier with every turn of the wheels, the horses wheezed dismally, and Roger groaned inwardly.  He kept his head out of the coach door most of the time, looking for trouble, and found it before his journey’s end.  Noah lighted the great lanthorn and hung it in front of the dashboard, his only cause of anxiety being the horses, until a greater arose.

CHAPTER III

IT IS HARD TO BE GOOD

There is an infernal charm about sin which should have been given to virtue, but unluckily got shifted in very early human days.  And so it was that George Hamilton had troubles of his own in this respect.  When he left Frances Jennings at Sundridge, he was aglow with good resolutions, all of which were to be put into immediate practice, and many of which he carried out in part by strong though spasmodic effort when he returned to court.

His attempts to be decent at first filled his friends with surprise, then disgust, then raillery.  The untoward thing had never been tried at Charles II’s Whitehall, and it furnished a deal of talk between routine scandals.  In fact, it was looked upon as a scandal in itself.

This new phase in one of the king’s own subdevils soon fell under the notice of his Majesty, who asked George one day if he would like to have an easy benefice in the church where he could meditate on his past and build for the future.