have done since the world began.

"But, I say, supper!" here broke in Lord Antony's jovial
voice, "supper, honest Jellyband. Where is that pretty wench of yours

and the dish of soup? Zooks, man, while you stand there gaping at the
ladies, they will faint with hunger."

"One moment! one moment, my lord," said Jellyband, as he
threw open the door that led to the kitchen and shouted lustily:

"Sally! Hey, Sally there, are ye ready, my girl?"
Sally was ready, and the next moment she appeared in the

doorway carrying a gigantic tureen, from which rose a cloud of steam
and an abundance of savoury odour.

"Odd's life, supper at last!" ejaculated Lord Antony, merrily,
as he gallantly offered his arm to the Comtesse.

"May I have the honour?" he added ceremoniously, as he led her
towards the supper table.

There was a general bustle in the coffee-room: Mr. Hempseed
and most of the yokels and fisher-folk had gone to make way for "the

quality," and to finish smoking their pipes elsewhere. Only the two
strangers stayed on, quietly and unconcernedly playing their game of

dominoes and sipping their wine; whilst at another table Harry Waite,
who was fast losing his temper, watched pretty Sally bustling round

the table.
She looked a very dainty picture of English rural life, and no

wonder that the susceptible young Frenchman could scarce take his eyes
off her pretty face. The Vicomte de Tournay was scarce nineteen, a

beardless boy, on whom terrible tragedies which were being enacted in
his own country had made but little impression. He was elegantly and

even foppishly dressed, and once safely landed in England he was
evidently ready to forget the horrors of the Revolution in the

delights of English life.
"Pardi, if zis is England," he said as he continued to ogle

Sally with marked satisfaction, "I am of it satisfied."
It would be impossible at this point to record the exact

exclamation which escaped through Mr. Harry Waite's clenched teeth.
Only respect for "the quality," and notably for my Lord Antony, kept

his marked disapproval of the young foreigner in check.
"Nay, but this IS England, you abandoned young reprobate,"

interposed Lord Antony with a laugh, "and do not, I pray, bring your
loose foreign ways into this most moral country."

Lord Antony had already sat down at the head of the table with
the Comtesse on his right. Jellyband was bustling round, filling

glasses and putting chairs straight. Sally waited, ready to hand
round the soup. Mr. Harry Waite's friends had at last succeeded in

taking him out of the room, for his temper was growing more and more
violent under the Vicomte's obviousadmiration for Sally.

"Suzanne," came in stern, commanding accents from the rigid
Comtesse.

Suzanne blushed again; she had lost count of time and of place
whilst she had stood beside the fire, allowing the handsome young

Englishman's eyes to dwell upon her sweet face, and his hand, as if
unconsciously, to rest upon hers. Her mother's voice brought her back

to reality once more, and with a submissive "Yes, Mama," she took her
place at the supper table.

CHAPTER IV THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
They all looked a merry, even a happy party, as they sat round

the table; Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, two typical
good-looking, well-born and well-bred Englishmen of that year of grace

1792, and the aristocratic French comtesse with her two children, who
had just escaped from such dire perils, and found a safe retreat at

last on the shores of protecting England.
In the corner the two strangers had apparently finished their

game; one of them arose, and standing with his back to the merry
company at the table, he adjusted with much with much deliberation his

large triple caped coat. As he did so, he gave one quick glance all
around him. Everyone was busy laughing and chatting, and he murmured

the words "All safe!": his companion then, with the alertness borne of
long practice, slipped on to his knees in a moment, and the next had

crept noiselessly under the oak bench. The stranger then, with a loud
"Good-night," quietly walked out of the coffee-room.

Not one of those at the supper table had noticed this curious and silent
! Mammanoeuvre, but when the stranger finally closed the door of the coffee-room

behind him, they all instinctively sighed a sigh of relief.
"Alone, at last!" said Lord Antony, jovially.

Then the young Vicomte de Tournay rose, glass in hand, and
with the gracefulaffectionpeculiar to the times, he raised it aloft,

and said in broken English,--
"To His Majesty George Three of England. God bless him for

his hospitality to us all, poor exiles from France."
"His Majesty the King!" echoed Lord Antony and Sir Andrew as

they drank loyally to the toast.
"To His Majesty King Louis of France," added Sir Andrew, with

solemnity. "May God protect him, and give him victory over his
enemies."

Everyone rose and drank this toast in silence. The fate of
the unfortunate King of France, then a prisoner of his own people,

seemed to cast a gloom even over Mr. Jellyband's pleasant countenance.
"And to M. le Comte de Tournay de Basserive," said Lord Antony, merrily.

"May we welcome him in England before many days are over."
"Ah, Monsieur," said the Comtesse, as with a slightly trembling hand

she conveyed her glass to her lips, "I scarcely dare to hope."
But already Lord Antony had served out the soup, and for the

next few moments all conversation ceased, while Jellyband and Sally
handed round the plates and everyone began to eat.

"Faith, Madame!" said Lord Antony, after a while, "mine was no
idle toast; seeing yourself, Mademoiselle Suzanne and my friend the

Vicomte safely in England now, surely you must feel reasurred as to
the fate of Monsieur le Comte."

"Ah, Monsieur," replied the Comtesse, with a heavy sigh, "I
trust in God--I can but pray--and hope. . ."

"Aye, Madame!" here interposed Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, "trust in
God by all means, but believe also a little in your English friends,

who have sworn to bring the Count safely across the Channel, even as
they have brought you to-day."

"Indeed, indeed, Monsieur," she replied, "I have the fullest
confidence in you and your friends. Your fame, I assure you, has

spread throughout the whole of France. The way some of my own friends
have escaped from the clutches of that awful revolutionary tribunal

was nothing short of a miracle--and all done by you and your friends--"
"We were but the hands, Madame la Comtesse. . ."

"But my husband, Monsieur," said the Comtesse, whilst unshed
tears seemed to veil her voice, "he is in such deadly peril--I would

never have left him, only. . .there were my children. . .I was torn
between my duty to him, and to them. They refused to go without

me. . .and you and your friends assured me so solemnly" target="_blank" title="ad.严肃地，庄严地">solemnly that my husband
would be safe. But, oh! now that I am here--amongst you all--in this

beautiful, free England--I think of him, flying for his life, hunted
like a poor beast. . .in such peril. . .Ah! I should not have left

him. . .I should not have left him!. . ."
The poor woman had completely broken down; fatigue, sorrow and

emotion had overmastered her rigid, aristocraticbearing. She was
crying gently to herself, whilst Suzanne ran up to her and tried to

kiss away her tears.
Lord Antony and Sir Andrew had said nothing to interrupt the

Comtesse whilst she was speaking. There was no doubt that they felt
deeply for her; their very silence testified to that--but in every

century, and ever since England has been what it is, an Englishman has
always felt somewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of his own