and by the vision of an out-at-elbows' hunchback whose body presently appeared as tall and as straight as that of a young god, and who threw a purse of gold about as if it were dross.
"And that, your Royal Highness, my lords and ladies," the abbé now concluded, "is all that I can tell you of the great miracle accomplished on our behalf and under the guidance of God by the finest and bravest man that ever walked this earth."
"Marvellous!"
"Prodigious!"
"Incredible!"
"Quite uncanny!"
These were some of the words that flew from mouth to mouth. It had been a glorious story, told with the simplicity of truth. The audience rose soon after that and separate groups were formed, groups in which the palpitating tale of a man's heroism drove from the most flippant minds all desire for frivolous chatter. The Prince of Wales held Monsieur l'Abbé in earnest conversation. There were many here present this evening who vowed that His Royal Highness was deep in the secrets of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and could if he had a mind reveal the identity of the popular hero. Lady Ffoulkes had edged up close to Lady Blakeney and these two beautiful women, wives of two brave English gentlemen, exchanged glances not only of pride but also of anxiety for those precious lives so valiantly and constantly risked in the defence of the helpless and the innocent.
At the other end of the room a group of ladies were trying to remember the famous doggerel which that inimitable dandy, Sir Percy Blakeney, as great a poet as he was a sportsman, had conceived while tying his cravat.
"It went thus," Lady Blanche declared: "They seek him in England, they . . ."
"No! no! no," broke in the eldest Miss Lockroy. "I am sure there was no word about England . . . or France . . ."
"Yes, there was," asserted pretty Miss Norreys; "I remember the word England very distinctly."
"Besides, it stands to reason," argued another fashionable beauty, "they are seeking him in England, aren't they?"
"Wouldn't it be simpler, ladies," one of the men suggested, "to settle the argument by referring it to the author of the deathless rhyme?"
"Yes! Yes! Of course," the ladies agreed.
"Sir Percy! Where is Sir Percy?"
All eyes were turned to the window embrasure against which the darling of society had last been seen reclining with an air of resignation.
"Sir Percy!" the ladies reiterated. "Where is Sir Percy?"
But they looked for him in vain. That Prince of Dandies had, incontinently, it seems, taken his elegant self off to a more congenial atmosphere.
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