glanced at him, he found him looking at the third of the trio, as if to ascertain his mood.  This last, a man of extreme tallness, and in appearance by far the youngest of the group—­for he looked not over thirty at most—­was scrutinising the signboard gravely, but his eyes had a gleam of merriment in them, which neutralised the set firmness of the mouth.  All the party were in uniform, save for a couple of servants in livery, and all were well mounted.

“Haw, haw, haw!” laughed the noisy one.  “Pray God mine host be not as chary with his spit as he is with his paint or ’t will be lean entertainment.”

“I said ’t was best to make a push for ’t to Amboy,” remarked the second.

“Nay, gentlemen,” responded the third, smiling pleasantly.  “A man so prudent and economical must keep a good ordinary.  Better bide here for dinner and kill a warm afternoon, and then push on to Amboy, in the cool of the evening, with rested cattle.”

“Within there!” shouted the noisy rider, “hast dinner and bait for a dozen travellers?”

The call brought the publican to the door, and at first he gasped a startled “By Jingo!” Then he jerked his cap off, and ducked very low, saying:  “’T was said, yer—­yer—­Lordship, that yer ’d not come till the morrow.  But if yer’ll honour my tavern, yer shall have the bestest in the house.”  He kept bowing between every word to the man with the big nose.

“Then here we tarry for dinner,” said the young-looking man, gracefully swinging himself out of the saddle, a proceeding imitated by all the riders.  “Take good heed of the horses, Bill,” he said, as a coloured servant came forward.  “Wash Blueskin’s nose and let him cool somewhat before watering him.”  He turned toward the door of the tavern, and this bringing Charles into vision again, he looked up at the painter to find himself being studied with so intent a gaze that he halted and returned the man’s stare.

“Art struck of a heap by the resemblance?” demanded the noisy officer.

“Go in, gentlemen,” replied the tall one.  “Well, my man,” he continued to Charles, “ye change figureheads easily.”

“Ay, ’t is easier to get new figureheads than ’t is to be true to old ones.”

A grave, almost stern look came into the officer’s face, making it at once that of an older man.  “Then ye think the old order best?” he asked, scanning the man with his steady blue eyes.

The bondsman put his hand on the signboard. “’T is safest to stick to an old figurehead until one can find a true leader,” he answered.

“And think you he is one?” demanded the officer, pointing at the signboard.

Charles laughed and laid a finger on the chin of royalty.  “No man with so little of that was ever a leader,” he asserted.  He reached down and picked up a different pot of paint from the one he had been using, dipped his brush in it, and with one sweep over the lower part of the face cleverly produced a chin of character.  Then he took another colour and gave three or four deft touches to the lips, transforming the expressionless mouth into a larger one, but giving to it both strength and expression.  “There is a beginning of a leader, I think,” he said.