“Vivre en tout cas C’est le grand soulas Des honnetes gens!” “That’s the foreigners,” said the chambermaid, and went on with her ditty—— “All for the love of a souljer Who christening name was Jan.” A volley of oaths sounded through the buttery hatch. “—And that’s the true-born Englishmen, as you may tell by their speech. ’Tis pretty company the master keeps, these days.” She was continuing her song, when I held up a finger for silence. In fact, through the hatch my ear had caught a sentence that set me listening for more with a still heart. “D—n the Captain,” the landlord’s gruff voice was saying; “I warn’d ’n agen this fancy business when sober, cool-handed work was toward.” “Settle’s way from his cradle,” growl’d another; “and times enough I’ve told ’n: ‘Cap’n,’ says I, ‘there’s no sense o’ proportions about ye.’ A master mind, sirs, but ’a ’ll be hang’d for a hen-roost, so sure as my name’s Bill Widdicomb.” “Ugly words-what a creeping influence has that same mention o’ hanging!” piped a thinner voice. “Hold thy complaints, Old Mortification,” put in a speaker that I recogniz’d for Black Dick; “sure the pretty maid upstairs is tender game. Hark how they sing!” And indeed the threatened folk upstairs were singing their catch very choicely, with a girl’s clear voice to lead them— “Comment dit papa —Margoton, ma mie?” “Heathen language, to be sure,” said the thin voice again, as the chorus ceased: “thinks I to mysel’ ‘they be but Papisters,’ an’ my doubting mind is mightily reconcil’d to manslaughter.” “I don’t like beginning ’ithout the Cap’n,” observed Black Dick: “though I doubt something has miscarried. Else, how did that young spark ride in upon the mare?” “An’ that’s what thy question should ha’ been, Dick, with a pistol to his skull.” “He’ll keep till the morrow.” “We’ll give Settle half-an-hour more,” said the landlord: “Mary!” he push’d open the hatch, so that I had barely time to duck my head out of view, “fetch in the punch, girl. How did’st leave the young man i’ the loft?’ “Asleep, or nearly,” answer’d Mary— “Who hang’d hersel’ in her gar-ters, All for the love o’ man—” “—Anon, anon, master: wait only till I get the kettle on the boil.” The hatch was slipp’d to again. I stood up and made a step toward the girl. “How many are they?” I ask’d, jerking a finger in the direction of the parlor. “A dozen all but one.” “Where is the foreign guests’ room?” “Left hand, on the first landing.” “The staircase?” “Just outside the door.” “Then sing—go on singing for your life.” “But—” “Sing!” “Dear heart, they’ll murder thee! Oh! for pity’s sake, let go my wrist— “‘Lament, ye maids an’ darters—’”