“None o’ thy quiddities, thou maker of long lies and quick legs.  Confess, or I’ll”—­

“Whoy, look ye, mistress, you’ve been kind, and pulled me out of many an ugly ditch.”

“Why dost thou hesitate, knave?  I’m glad thy memory is not so treacherous as thy tongue.”

“Nay, mistress, I’ve no notion to sup brose wi’ t’ old one:  those that dinner wi’ him he may happen ask to supper; and he’d need have a long whittle that cuts crumbs wi’ the de’il.”

“Art thou at thy riddles again?  Speak in sober similitudes, if thou canst, sirrah.”

“Your father sent me on a message to the little devilkin last night.  I was loth enough to the job; but he catched me as I went wi’ the victuals.”

“A message!—­and to what purport?”

“Nay, that I know not.  The invitation was conveyed in a scrap of writing, and I’m not gifted in clerkship an’ such like matters.”

A ray of intelligence now burst upon her.  She saw the imminent danger which threatened the fugitive, who had been hitherto concealed principally by her contrivances.  Gregory watched the rapid and changing hues alternating on her cheek.  She saw the full extent of the emergency; and, though her father was the traitor, she hesitated not in that trying moment.

No time was to be lost, and measures were immediately taken to countervail these designs.

“What answer sent he?” she hastily inquired.

“The de’il’s buckie said his master would be at the hall by dinner-time; and I’ll not be one o’ the guests where old Clootie has the pick o’ the table.”

“Thou witless runnion, haste, or we are lost!  It is the king!  I would I had trusted thee before with the secret.  Mayhap thy wit would have been without obscuration.  Supernatural terrors have taken thy reason prisoner.  Haste, nor look behind thee until thou art under the eaves of Bashall.  This to my cousin, Edmund Talbot; he is honest, or my wishes themselves are turned traitors,” said the maiden wistfully.  She scrawled but one line, with which Gregory departed on his errand.

Oliver Tempest grew uneasy at his daughter’s absence.  He inquired the cause, but all were alike ignorant.  The king inquired too, with some surprise; and a messenger was despatched with a close whisper in his ear.

The meal was nigh finished, when all eyes were turned towards the entrance.  A little blackamoor page came waddling in.  He made no sign nor obeisance, but took his station, without speaking, behind his master’s chair.

“Why, how now, my trusty squire?” said the disguised monarch; “thou wast not bidden to this feast.”

The dwarf cast a scowling glance at the master of the house, and he replied, while a hideous grin dilated his thick stubborn features—­

“This be goodly wassail, methinks.  I am weary of lurching and torchlight.”

“Tempest,” said the king, “I would crave grace for this follower of mine.  He is somewhat fearsome and forbidding, but of an unwearied fidelity.”