“Indeed, child, you grow a little bloodthirsty, I think!” he sighed. “Rest you here a moment. I must speak a word with master landlord.” Left alone, she stood to stare after Sir John’s slender, light-treading figure, then, turning about, entered the inn. The place was full of stir and bustle, so, pulling her hood about her face, she mounted the stair, but paused at sound of riotous merriment from a room near by; she was standing thus hesitant, when a vigorous arm was clasped suddenly about her and, all in a moment, she was half-carried, half-dragged to a certain door which, swinging wide, discovered three gentlemen at their wine, chief among them one who sat at the head of the table, resplendent in sky-blue coat and flaxen periwig that framed a handsome, arrogant face, bold of eye, full-lipped and square of chin; a gentleman who bore himself with a masterful air and who now, setting down his glass, leant suddenly forward to stare at her who stood shrinking beneath the fixity of his gaze. “By Venus and all the Loves!” he exclaimed. “Whom ha’ you there, Huntley?” “A bird o’ price, Sayle! Ha’n’t I caught a pretty bird, then?” “Smite me!” exclaimed his lordship, viewing the captive in growing amaze. “Burn me if I ever saw such a resemblance! She might be the proud Barrasdaile herself were she a little less vulgarly robust—less redundant in her curves, d’ye see. Bring her hither, Huntley man!” “Damme, no, Sayle—she’s mine!” “Damme, yes, sir, she belongs to all! In her we greet her bewitching prototype, in her rustical image we’ll adore and pay homage to her of whom she is the very spit, the breathing likeness—‘the Barrasdaile’ herself. Since the haughty beauty is beyond our reach, this countrified semblance of her shall serve our turn ... she’s a dainty creature, I vow, with ruddy lips ... a waist ... a shape! Bring her hither, man! Nay—up on the table with her! Aye so, throned on the table she shall receive our worship!” Despite struggles, supplications and bitter reproaches, she was hoisted to the table amid a hubbub of cheers and laughter and, standing thus, faced them—a wild creature, trembling with shame, rage and a growing fear. And it was now that Sir John chose to open the door, pausing on the threshold, snuff-box in hand, to survey the scene with an expression of cold and passionless disgust until the company, a little taken aback by his sudden appearance, ceased their clamorous merriment to frown with one accord upon the intruder, and fiercest of all, my Lord Sayle. “What the devil?” he demanded. “This is a private room, sir—get out and be damned!” Sir John smiled, closed the door and leaned his back against it, whereat were murmurs and mutterings of angry surprise, and my Lord Sayle rose to his feet. “Damme, is the fellow drunk or mad!... What d’ye want?” he demanded.