“Please go before greater trouble comes.  I could not hold out for another fight.  I am almost finished.  Let the king fight the battles of his friends.  The ruffian that escaped will return with re-enforcements, and I am not able to fight them again.”

“Oh, but she is not the king’s friend, as you suppose, as my idle words might lead you to believe,” returned Nelly, pleadingly.

George rose from the tub over which he was standing and answered:  “Show your gratitude for what I have done by going at once.”

Seeing that George was in earnest, Nelly left the courtyard, leading reluctant Frances by the hand.  Hamilton’s supposed crime had been forgotten, and I believe would have been forgiven had he permitted Frances the opportunity at that time.

When Frances and Nelly reached the street, Frances said, “I must see him again to tell him that I am not—­”

“What I am,” interrupted Nelly.  “Do not fear to speak plainly.  I am content with myself.  But I shall take measures at once to convince George that you are what you are.  I’ll set you right with him.”

“I’ll return and explain for myself,” insisted Frances.

“He will refuse to hear you.  If you wish, I’ll leave you at the barge and go back to explain to him.”

Frances consenting, they went back to the barge, and Nelly, returning to the tavern, sought Betty.  Hamilton was not to be seen, and in reply to Nelly’s inquiries, Betty told her that he had fainted at the pump and had been taken upstairs to a room.

“His wounds are deeper than he supposed,” said Betty, “and the loss of blood has been very great.  We have sent for a surgeon.”

“I’ll go to see him,” said Nelly.

“No,” returned Betty, shaking her head emphatically.  “Father says that fever may set in, and that Master Hamilton must not be disturbed.  You cannot see him.”

“Have your way, Betty,” answered good-natured Nell.  “And Betty dear, I was only teasing you about the table linen.”

“I understand.  Just a little sport with the barmaid,” returned Betty, a note of sarcasm ringing sharply in her usually soft voice.

“Yes, Betty.  I’m sorry.  Forgive me.  Here are two guineas.”

“I don’t want them,” answered Betty, clasping her hands behind her.

“Again forgive me,” said Nelly.  “I have been wrong altogether in my opinion of you.  You are a good, beautiful girl, and I’m coming back to see you very soon.”

“Please don’t come on my account, Mistress Gwynn,” returned Betty.

“No, I shall come on my account,” replied Nell, coaxingly.  “I’ll go now for fear of making more trouble for you, but I intend to be your friend, and you shall be mine.  When Nelly makes up her mind to have a friend, she always has her way.  Good-by, Betty.”

Betty courtesied, and Nelly left the Old Swan, returning at once to Frances, who was waiting in the barge.  On their way back to the palace neither Frances nor Nelly spoke after Nelly had told what she had heard at the inn.  Usually Nelly was laughing or talking, or both, and when a woman of her temperament is silent, she is thinking.  In this instance her thinking brought her to two conclusions:  first, that Hamilton was the man Frances loved and hated; and second, that it was his face she had recognized on the night Roger Wentworth was killed.