a care, my good Cecil,” laughed Farquhart. “You mention the enemy’s name somewhat freely, seeing that we are to escort a lady through his haunts.”
“Ay, but my fingers are crossed, you see, and that closes the devil’s ears. If it really is the devil, we’ll have nothing to fear from him.”
“The last report is that he held up the bishop’s carriage, mounted escort and all,” interrupted Treadway.
“No, no,” corrected Lindley; “the fellow merely stopped the bishop’s carriage, escort and all. Then he begged for alms, and the episcopal blessing! Then he drew the ring from the hand that bestowed the alms and blessing, and slipped away before the ponderous escort perceived that the bishop had fainted with terror.”
“They say he returned the ring the following day,” added Treadway, “doubling the alms bestowed by the bishop, requesting that the gold be used for the good of the church!”
“A devilish good joke, I call that,” laughed Lord Farquhart. “And they say, too, that the poor old bishop is actually afraid to use the money for fear it – why, I really believe he is afraid that his Satanic majesty did have some part in the prank.”
“And old Grimsby swears he saw the fellow’s tail and cloven hoof when he was waylaid by him,” commented Lindley.
“I’d not heard that Lord Grimsby had been attacked by this highwayman.” This was Ashley’s first entrance into the conversation.
“Attacked!” the three men cried in chorus.
“Why, he was held up in his own garden,” explained Treadway. “It was just after it had been noised abroad that he had disinherited Jack. Poor Jack was bemoaning his luck and his debts in prison, and they say that Lord Grimsby spent all his time pacing the walks of his garden cursing Jack and those selfsame debts. That is to say, that is what he did before the episode of the highwayman. Then the man – or devil, whatever he is – appeared quite close behind Lord Grimsby, gagged him and blindfolded him, and would not release him until he had signed a promise to reinstate Jack, pay all his debts and present him with money enough to live like a prince of the blood for a year. Hard as it is to believe, old Grimsby signed it, and afterward he was afraid to go back on his signature, for fear – why, simply for fear that the devil would come for him if he did. Jack, of course, is all for worshiping the devil now, and swears if this gentlemanly highwayman proves to be human, and ever comes near the gallows, he’ll save him or become highwayman himself. So, in reality, old Grimsby will have to use his power to save this thief, if ever he’s caught, to keep his own son and heir off the road.”
“And Lord Grimsby’s power is absolute, is it not?” asked Ashley.
“As absolute as his majesty’s command,” agreed Treadway.
“Has it not been whispered in certain circles that this highwayman is some well-known London gallant, merely amusing himself with the excitement and danger of the game of the road?” asked Lindley.
“Somewhat too dangerous an amusement, in spite of its profits,” sneered Ashley.
“Ah, but that’s the most curious part of it!” cried Treadway. “The fellow never keeps anything that he takes. There are some two-score robberies laid to his account, and in each and every case some poor fellow down on his luck for want of funds has received, most mysteriously, the stolen wealth.”
“He fights like a fiend, they say,” commented Lord Farquhart, “whether he is a gentleman or not. And yet he has seriously wounded no one. Sir Henry Willoughby confessed to me that the fellow had pinked him twenty times in a moonlit, roadside attack, then disarmed him with a careless laugh and walked off, taking nothing with him. Sir Henry himself, mind you! The most noted duelist in London!”
“Why not drink to the fiend and a speedy meeting with him?” laughed Lindley. “I promise you that if I meet him I’ll unmask him and see if he be man or devil. To the Black Devil himself!” he cried, lifting high his wine cup. “To this most honorable and fearless gentleman of the highways!”
The four voices rose in chorus to the brown rafters of the inn.
“To this most honorable and fearless gentleman of the highways! To the Black Devil himself!”
III
Many a round of wine had been served to the young revelers, and, under its influence, each one was revealing a little more of his real self. They had all laid aside their muddy riding boots and heavy riding coats, and were lounging in picturesque undress. Lord Farquhart, who was easily the leader of the four, had thrown aside the cynical veneer that had for some time marred the dark, Oriental beauty of his face, and was humming a love song. Lindley’s comely Irish face was slightly flushed, and he was keeping time on the white table with the tip of his sword to the ditty that floated from Lord Farquhart’s lips. Treadway, London’s dapperest beau, was smirking at his own reflection in a small hand mirror he carried, while Ashley, who had drunk more heavily than any of the others, permitted a definite scowl to contract his brows and droop his lips.
“I’m trying – I’m trying,” murmured Lord Farquhart, “to change that last song I wrote for Sylvia into a song for Barbara! The rhyme and the rhythm go the same, I think.” He stood up and sang the words out loud, repeating the verses several times, inserting sometimes Sylvia’s name and sometimes Barbara’s.
Lips that vie with the poppy’s hue,
Eyes that shame the violet’s blue,
Hearts that beat with love so true,
Sylvia, sweet, I come to you!
Barb’ra, sweet, I come to you!
His eyes questioned Treadway.
“Is it not quite the same? Does it not go to one name as well as to the other? To me it seems I’ve no need to write a new verse for my new love.”
“How will the fair Sylvia take her congé in a fortnight’s time?” demanded Ashley, in an undertone, of Lindley.
And it was in the same tone that Lindley answered: “Let’s wonder, rather, if the fair Sylvia’ll be given her congé in a fortnight’s time!” But the sneer in Lindley’s voice was for Ashley, who had asked the impertinent question, not for Farquhart, whose honor he, apparently, doubted. “Lord Farquhart’s not to blame, as you know well enough. The mess is of Lord Gordon’s making, for Lord Gordon holds in trust even the barren lands that came to Percy with his title.”
Ashley’s resentment of Lindley’s tone was apparent on his face, and his fingers were again on his sword. He was under no promise to his lady not to fight with Lindley, and his blood cried out for a fight with some one. But at that instant there was a loud clamor in the courtyard. A horse’s hoofs on the flags, a fretted whinny, the oaths of stable boys, all combined into an uproar.
“Can it be the Lady Barbara?” cried Percy Farquhart, sobered suddenly, and reaching for his plumed hat.
“Nay, my lord, ’tis but one horse,” answered Marmaduke, hurrying to the door. “’Tis a riderless horse,” he added, in a second.
“A riderless horse!” echoed all of the young men in chorus, springing to their feet.
“Ay, a riderless horse,” called Marmaduke, from the darkness without; “’tis a woman’s horse, too; a woman’s cushioned seat.”
The guests were crowding about the door, all save the lad who had been slumbering so deeply.
