“How long ago was that, Colonel Blood?” he asked softly.

“Come twenty year this day s’ennight,” mutters the freebooter. “’Twas before I entered court service.  Her father had four o’ my fellows gibbeted at Charing Cross, Gad’s me, I swore he’d sweat for it!  She was Osmond’s only child—­squalling brat coming with nurse over Hounslow Heath.  ’Sdeath—­I see it yet!  Postillions yelled like stuck pigs, nurses kicked over in coach dead away.  When they waked up, curse me, but the French poisoner had the brat!  Curse me, I’d done better to finish her myself.  Picot ran away and wrote letters—­letters—­letters, till I had to threaten to slit his throat, ’pon my soul, I had!  And now she must marry the boy——­”

“Why?” put in Radisson, with cold indifference and half-listening air.

“Gad’s life, can’t you see?” asked the knave.  “Osmond’s dead, the boy’s lands are hers—­the French doctor may ‘a’ told somebody,” and Colonel Blood of His Majesty’s service slid under the table with the judge.

M. Radisson rose and led the way out.

“You’d like to cudgel him,” he said.  “Come with me to Whitehall instead!”

CHAPTER XXIX

THE KING’S PLEASURE

My Lady Kirke was all agog.

Pierre Radisson was her “dear sweet savage,” and “naughty spark,” and “bold, bad beau,” and “devilish fellow,” and “lovely wretch!”

“La, Pierre,” she cries, with a tap of her fan, “anybody can go to the king’s levee!  But, dear heart!” she trills, with a sidelong ogle.  “Ta!—­ta! naughty devil!—­to think of our sweet savage going to Whitehall of an evening!  Lud, Mary, I’ll wager you, Her Grace of Portsmouth hath laid eyes on him——­”

“The Lord forbid!” ejaculates Pierre Radisson.

“Hoighty-toighty!  Now! there you go, my saucy spark!  Good lack!  An the king’s women laid eyes on any other man, ’twould turn his head and be his fortune!  Naughty fellow!” she warns, with a flirt of her fan.  “We shall watch you!  Ta-ta, don’t tell me no!  Oh, we know this gaite de coeur!  You’ll presently be intime o’ Portsmouth and Cleveland and all o’ them!”

“Madame,” groans Pierre Radisson, “swear, if you will!  But as you love me, don’t abuse the French tongue!”

At which she gave him a slap with her fan.

“An I were not so young,” she simpers, “I’d cuff your ears, you saucy Pierre!”

“So young!” mutters Pierre Radisson, with grim looks at her powdered locks.  “Egad’s life, so is the bud on a century plant young,” and he turns to his wife.

But my Lady Kirke was blush-proof.

“Don’t forget to pay special compliments to the favourites,” she calls, as we set out for Whitehall; and she must run to the door in a flutter and ask if Pierre Radisson has any love-verse ready writ, in case of an amour with one of the court ladies.