"Poor fellow! is it so bad as that? She didn’t fall a victim to your new coat, then?" "’Tis all very well for you to laugh. Wait till you suffer just such a rebuff." "Tell me what you said." "How do I know what I said? I only know what she said. She dropt me a curtsy, the hussy, and thanked me for the honour, and said she had no mind to a husband and would never wed, but stay with her mother. And then she opened the harpsichord and said: ’Don’t let us be children, Monsieur. Sing me that amusing song of yours and be amiable.’ And ’pon my word, Harry, I couldn’t resist; she has a masterful way; and when her mother came in there was I trolling ’Widdicombe Fair’ as if there’d been never a word of love betwixt us." "Cheer up! you were too sudden. Wait a few months and then try your luck again." "Never! I know she won’t look at me. And take my advice, Harry. If ever you fall in love with a girl, don’t make yourself cheap and sing cheerful songs. Egad, if I’d sung dying ditties and sighed like a furnace I might have had a different tale to tell. I’ll go to quarters; but I sha’n’t sleep; I know I sha’n’t; good-night!" *CHAPTER XVIII* *A Little Plot* Father and Son—A Message from Breda—An Afternoon Call—When Greek meets Greek—The Tug of War—Pourparlers—The Merk—Two Men and a Sack—Snatched from the River—Cousin Rafe—Scant Gratitude—A Ray of Light One afternoon Squire Berkeley sat solitary in his inn at the Hague, warming his lean, withered hands in the blaze of a log fire. The air was cold, and it had been raining heavily for hours. The old man had laid aside his wig; a black velvet skull-cap covered his white hair to the ears; and, clad in the long cassock-like garment of rusty black that he always wore indoors, he might have passed, with his thin haggard cheeks, for an ascetic dignitary of the Church rather than the prosperous lord of an English manor. He sat in a high-backed chair, staring into the fire. His lips moved as he communed with himself, and the expression of his face showed that his thoughts were none too pleasant. Once or twice he clenched his teeth and brought his closed fist heavily down upon the arm of the chair; he sighed often, and looked the very image of a sad, anxious, embittered man. Presently the door opened noisily and, with a gust of keen air that made the squire shiver, a young man entered the room. It was Piers Berkeley, the squire’s son. He was dressed as usual in the height of fashion, but presented a bedraggled woebegone aspect now, his finery effectually ruined by the rain. "Split me, father," he cried in a peculiarly high and affected tone of voice, "I’m verily the most wretched man on earth." "What is the matter?" said the old man, turning half round. "Why have you left your regiment?"