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And the eyes of all Royalist France were fixed on the same face. "Silence!" whispered Dormer Colville in English, crushing Barebone's foot under the table. "The portrait of a lady," repeated Loo, slowly. "Young and beautiful. That much I remember." The old nobleman had never removed his covering hand from the locket. He had never glanced at it himself.
A list of Praise-God Barebone's Parliament I think, or of old Noll's evangelical army that last fellow should understand his wheelings, to judge by his name. But what does all this mean, my girl?" "It was the other paper, sir," said Jeanie, somewhat abashed at the mistake.
It was Colville who had given the names to the servant in the order in which they had been announced, and at the last minute, on the threshold, he had stepped on one side and with his hand on Barebone's shoulder had forced him to take precedence.
A momentary silhouette against the northern sky showed that it was Colville, come at last. "Quick this way!" he whispered, and taking Barebone's arm he led him through the bushes. He halted in a little open space between the ilex and the river-wall, which is fifteen feet high at the meeting of the creek and the larger stream.
Dormer Colville was only anticipating events when he took away the character of the Captain of the "Petite Jeanne." Turner had himself proposed this alternative method of securing Barebone's silence. He had even named the sum.
"Then tell it, slowly. While I eat this sole a la Normande. I see you've nearly finished yours, and I have scarcely begun." It was a vague and disjointed enough story, as related by Septimus Marvin. And it was the story of Loo Barebone's father. As it progressed John Turner grew redder and redder in the face, while he drank glass after glass of Burgundy.
"Thank God!" muttered Dormer Colville almost in Barebone's ear and swayed against him. Barebone turned and looked into a face grey and haggard, and shining with perspiration. Instinctively he grasped him by the arm and supported him. In the confusion of the moment no one noticed Colville; for all were pressing round the prostrate lady.
She was singularly collected, and spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. Barebone's eyes gleamed suddenly; for she had aroused perhaps purposely a pride which must have accumulated in his blood through countless generations. She struck with no uncertain hand. "Yes," he said, slowly; "it is to be regretted. Is it because I am the son of a nameless father and only the mate of 'The Last Hope'?"
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