The baggage was hoisted up behind, and Charles was about to slam the door, when a hackney-chaise turned the corner at a gallop and pulled up in the narrow street abreast, and the figure of my Lord Comyn suddenly leaped within the compass of the lanthorn’s rays.  He was dressed as for a ball, with only a thin rain-cloak over his shoulders, for the night was thick with mist.  He threw at us a startled look that was a question.

“Jack, Richard is to be betrayed to-night by his uncle,” said Charles, shortly.  “And I am taking them to Portsmouth to get them off for Lisbon.”

“Charles,” said his Lordship, sternly, “give me that greatcoat.”

It was just the one time that ever I saw uncertainty on Mr. Fox’s face.  He threw an uneasy glance into the chaise.

“I have brought money,” his Lordship went on rapidly; “’Twas that kept me, for I guessed at something of this kind.  Give me the coat, I say.”

Mr. Fox wriggled out of it, and took the oiled cape in return.

“Thank you, Jack,” he said simply, and stepped into the carriage.  “Who is to mend my waistcoats now?” he cried.  “Faith, I shall treasure this against you, Richard.  Good-by, my lad, and obey your rebel general.  Alas!  I must even ask your permission to salute her.”

And he kissed the unresisting Dorothy on both her cheeks.  “God keep the two of you,” he said, “for I love you with all my heart.”

Before we could answer he was gone into the night; and my Lord, standing without, had closed the carriage door.  And that was the last I saw of this noble man, the true friend of America, who devoted his glorious talents and his life to fighting the corruption that was rotting the greatness of England.  He who was followed by the prayers of the English race was ever remembered in our own humble ones.

CHAPTER LVII

I COME TO MY OWN AGAIN

’Twas a rough, wild journey we made to Portsmouth, my dears, and I think it must have killed me had not my lady been at my side.  We were no sooner started than she pulled the curtains and opened her portmanteau, which I saw was near filled with things for my aid and comfort.  And I was made to take a spoonful of something.  Never, I believe, was medicine swallowed with a greater willingness.  Talk was impossible, so I lay back in the corner and looked at her; and now and anon she would glance at my face, with a troubled guess in her own as to how I might stand the night.  For we were still in London.  That I knew by the trot of our horses, and by the granite we traversed from time to time.  But at length we rumbled over a bridge, there was a sharp call back from our post-boy to him of the chaise behind, and then began that rocking and pitching and swaying and creaking, which was to last the whole night long, save for the brief stops at the post-houses.