But of late fortune had turned a wry face upon the man. His regiment was disbanded for lack of money, his pittance from the Earl, his brother, ceased altogether; and, with a reckless manner of living, a debtors’ prison stared him in the face. He sat upon the couch in Mornay’s new room at the Swan Tavern, watching with a somewhat scornful expression of countenance Vigot help his master to make his toilet. His eyes blinked sleepily at the light, for it was high noon; and his wig having been removed for comfort, the light shone brilliantly upon a short crop of carroty-red hair which took all the colors of the rainbow. Mornay wore a splendid silken night-gown, little in keeping with the dinginess of the apartment. While Vigot dressed his master’s perruque, Mornay told the Irishman of the note from the King and of the arrival of the post from France, with the news of the anger of the Grand Monarque and of his promise of death or imprisonment should Mornay be brought to France. Cornbury pursed his lips in a thin whistle. “Viscount,” he said, frowning, “ye’re skatin’ on thin ice.” Mornay had completely recovered his good spirits. He tossed his night-robe to Vigot and snapped his fingers. “_Mais, monsieur_,” he smiled. “’Tis an exercise so exhilarating.” “D--n it, man, ’tis no time for jesting,” growled the Irishman, rising. “The post from France to-day says ye are to be put in the Bastile or have your head chopped off; in London ye’re a fugitive from justice for killing; and, lastly, yer good friend Charles has turned a cold shoulder on ye. And ye talk of exhilaration!” Cornbury’s disgust was illimitable. Mornay dusted a speck from his sleeve and smiled gayly. “It is not every day, my good Cornbury, that a man may become possessed of a family, a fortune, and, _ma foi_, such a beautiful, scornful she-cousin--” “Zoons, man! How can ye prove it without the papers? The mere word ‘D’Añasco’ will not open their ears or their hearts. I believe it, but who else would?” “I can prove that I am the boy Ruiz, I tell you.” “And ye’re fleeing for your life?” Mornay’s face grew stern. “Yes, I am fleeing for my life,” he cried, “but they have not caught me yet. Last night I would not have cared if they had sent me back to France. To-day it is different. They have robbed me of my estates, of my name; they have made me a mere creeping thing--a viper. _Morbleu!_ they shall feel the viper’s sting. Monsieur de Heywood is dead. Mistress Barbara Clerke--” Cornbury leaned forward in his chair. “Surely you don’t mean--” “Oh, put your mind at rest, _mon ami_. I shall do my pretty cousin no violence. I shall see her--that’s all. But first--first, about the papers with this Capitaine Ferraire--” Cornbury smiled dryly.