“I’m awa’,” he said, lapsing in his agitation into a broad accent. “I’m no’ meddling any further—I came for a paper—the whilk is burnt and I’m ganging—I willna’ listen to yer treasonable practices—no, but I wish ye success,” he added hastily, “but I’m ganging.” His cousin turned on him. “Then gang, cousin Archibald,” she said angrily. “Take your puir white face awa’—I willna’ come with ye—I’m staying.” This redeemed her with the company who murmured approval, under cover of which Argyll slipped out. “Supposing he goes straight to my cousin at Kensington?” asked Berwick, looking after the Earl. “He willna’,” answered the Countess hastily, “he has gone too deep—he willna’ dare to open up what will be exposing himself.” “No, but I wish ye success,” mocked Berwick. “But I’m ganging!” They all laughed. “Even if he did want to inform—there won’t be time,” cried Porter. “To-day is Thursday and on Saturday—” “We shall be meeting on Turnham Green!” shouted another. “To drink the health of the King over the water!” “God save His Majesty!” “Down with little Hooknose!” “Saturday—and don’t be afraid of breaking the glass windows, Mr. Porter!” “Nor of frightening the horses!” shrieked Celia Hunt. Through this hubbub rose Berwick’s voice: “Oh, la! Oh, dear! Ain’t it amusing!” Porter scrambled to his feet and thumping the table with a bottle till silence was obtained, commenced to sing in a powerful deep voice: _Oh, our loyal hearts were tired Of a Dutchman on the throne And an harquebus we fired To give the King his own And across the Straits of Dover Our gallant King came over, Came triumphantly over to his own!_ They caught up the chorus in various keys. _And across the Straits of Dover Our gallant King came over, Came triumphantly over to his own!_ Berwick rose, excited by the swinging tune, his tall shadow was flung wavering up the wall and over the ceiling; his under-jawed hair face with the heavy-lidded eyes was an almost exact likeness of King James in his youth; Porter looked at him and sung: _Oh, the Dutchman ruled us sourly, And discontented we had grown, We watched the Channel hourly For the King to take his own._ Wildly the chorus rose: _And across the Straits of Dover Our gallant King came over, Came triumphantly over to his own!_ Jerome Caryl glanced at Lady Breadalbane; she was the only one silent save himself; she sat still with downcast eyes, but he fancied that she was in great anxiety. Again the stalwart voice of Porter rose: