Ferrers hurled a curse at him and renewed his shouting, to the end that men by this time came running from the houses and shops farther up the street, through which the coach must pass. But the horses were moving at a full gallop. It would have been easier to stop a charge of cavalry. Most people simply looked back at Ferrers and stared. One or two venturesome fellows rushed out, but a sight of the resolute faces of the outriders, who guarded the leaders’ heads, was enough to make them pause, and the coach clattered on to safety. There were twenty plum-colored calashes in the city, and Mornay knew that detection would be difficult if not impossible at this time of the evening, when the streets were cleared and the coach could wind deviously to the distant purlieus of Fenchurch Street. Soon the clamor they had made was lost in the turns of the winding streets, and the coach was brought by a distant route to the spot at which Monsieur Mornay had entered it--not a stone’s-throw from the Swan. Cornbury was awaiting him upstairs. He had puffed the room full of smoke, and a look of relief passed over his face as Mornay entered. “Well, monsieur?” he asked. Mornay did not answer. He tossed his hat down and threw himself into a chair. “I’ve lost,” he muttered at last. He said no more, and Cornbury did not press him for information. But presently, when the supper was brought, and his eye alighted upon the face of his servant, he broke into a smile. “Ah, Vigot!” he cried. “Did my honest rogues get back to their stable?” “In perfect safety, monsieur. ‘Scaldy’ Quinn and Tom Trice are not the ones to be caught napping. They only wish another venture in your service.” Mornay sadly shook his head. “Vigot, I shall need no further service in England. You, too, shall go back to France--and I--” He paused as a sudden thought came to him. He brought his fist down upon the table. “_Parbleu!_ Wait, Vigot! Perhaps we may yet have need for these fellows. Tell them to come here quietly by ten of the clock.” Cornbury had been watching him narrowly. Now he broke out angrily. “Can ye not be satisfied? Why must ye go forever risking yer neck in the noose? Ye’ve escaped this time. How, God knows, save by that presumption which ye wear as a garment. Come, now, I’ve made up my mind to go to the Plantations. Take ship with me, man. I know of a venture there that is worth the pains of the trouble twenty times over. Come at least for the present, until yer peril is grown less.” Mornay was holding his chin in his hand, lost in thought. “_Mon ami_,” he said at last, “I’ve shot my bolt and lost. There was never so heartless a maid since the world began.” “Tush, dear man! Must ye be forever thinking of the girl? A wench is a wench in England or Ameriky.” Mornay arose and put his hands frankly upon the other’s shoulders. “I’ll go with you, my good friend, where you please--after to-night.” “Ay, and to-night--ye may go to the devil--”