“As for Mornay--” For an answer, Lord Downey significantly blew out one of the candles upon the table. “Pf!--That is what will happen to Mornay. The story is this: The coaches were drawn up on Tower Wharf, waiting to follow the King. In the French coach were seated Mornay and the son of the ambassador. In the Spanish coach were Baron de Batteville and two ladies. After his Majesty had passed, both the French and Spanish coaches endeavored to be first in the street, which is here so narrow that but one may pass at a time. The Frenchman had something of the advantage of position, and, cutting into the Spaniard with a great crash, sent the coach whirling over half-way upon its side, to the great hazard of the Spaniard and ladies within. Then Mornay, who has a most ingenious art of getting into the very thick of things, leaped upon the coachman’s seat and seized the reins of the coach-horses. He was beset by the Spaniards and cut upon the head.” “And he hung on?” “What d’ye think the fellow did? Pulled the French horses back and aside and let the Spanish coach down upon four wheels and out of danger. Was it not a pretty pass? The rest was as simple as you please. The Spaniard whipped, and though smashed and battered, won first through the narrow passage.” “And Mornay?” “Does not deny it. He says it would have been impossible for a gentleman to see such ladies thrown into a dirty ditchwater.” “And the ladies, man? Who were the ladies?” said Ferrers. “Aha! that is the best of it. The Spaniards relate that Mornay came down from the coachman’s seat wiping the blood from his cheek. To one of the ladies he said, ‘Madame, the kingdom of France yields precedence only to a rank greater than Majesty. The honor France loses belongs not to Spain, but to the beautiful Barbara Clerke.’” Sir Henry Heywood caught at a quick breath. “Mistress Clerke! My ward!” Captain Ferrers looked from Downey to Cornbury, only to see verification written upon their faces. He pushed back his bench from the table, his countenance fairly blazing with anger, and cried, in a choking voice: “Mornay again! To drag her name into every ordinary and gaming hell in London! Coxcomb!--scoundrel!--upstart that he is! Mornay, always Mornay--” The candles flickered gayly as Monsieur Mornay entered. His figure and costume were the perfection of studied elegance. The perruque was admirably curled, and the laces and jewels were such that a king might have envied him. A black patch extending along the forehead gave him an odd appearance, and the white brow seemed the more pallid by contrast. His features in repose bore the look of settled melancholy one sometimes sees on the faces of men who live for pleasure alone. But as his eyes turned towards the table a smile, full of careless good-humor, came over his features. He advanced, pausing a moment as Wynne and Heywood pushed Ferrers down by main force into his seat.