Upon which, he made as low a bow toward the languid figure as if the exile sat in state upon his throne, and withdrew from the room. In the entrance-hall, dimly lit by a tallow candle thrust in an iron sconce, he paused, and an air of concentration succeeded the spurt of enforced gaiety. Charles had indeed summed up the situation. The English Royalists, bankrupt of credit, bankrupt at last of hope, the King himself reduced to pledge his orders, even his favourite silver-hilt sword, the royal dinner “dwindled to one dish”; withal the taste of wine like to some receding memory! It would require an inspiration of audacity this evening to provide the rashly promised guerdon. But Rockhurst had a soul to which emergency was a sure spur. He wasted no further time upon reflection, since reflection served but to show ever more sternly that in this night’s foray he must suffer chance and his own boldness to guide him. Going to the door of the servants’ quarters, he called for the French factotum—a clever rascal, cook, valet, groom,—who, with his faithful English attendant, represented the household of the whilom sumptuous Lord Viscount. “Marcelin!” “Monseigneur?” The word rang back in brisk interrogation from the underground kitchen. “Get thee a lantern and attend me. We go foraging, you understand?” “Oh, yes, monseigneur!” There was something of a joyous ring in the prompt answer. “Chitterley!” “Yes, my lord!” “His Majesty himself is with us to-night! Take up candles and lay the supper table—” “Yes—my lord.” The quavering response was given in tones of doubt and wonder. Rockhurst adjusted his cloak,—a garment more weather-stained and damaged even than the suit it covered,—flung upon his head the battered beaver with its derision of a Cavalier plume, and was unlocking the door when Marcelin emerged. “I have taken the liberty to bring a basket, monseigneur,” said the man, casting the object (which was of bloated dimensions) on the floor whilst he settled his lantern to better trim. “Foraging?—Good news, my faith, for it’s a weary time since we have had but Poor-John or a sandhill rabbit to our stringy cabbage! Monseigneur has his plan, no doubt?” “None as yet,” said Rockhurst. “But, at whatever cost, Marcelin, we return not here empty-handed.” “As soon die of a knock on the head as of famine,” said the Frenchman lightly. “Milord hardly conceives with what joy I am of his enterprise. I would follow milord at all times, but to-night there is hardly a crime I do not feel capable of after these days of stock-fish and clear water.” The strokes of nine were falling slow and grave from the Cathedral tower, somewhere high above the fog, as they turned into the street. All Bruges, wrapped in her blanket of mist, lay to their will: a town asleep, or soon to be, for your Fleming is a creature of early hours.