"
"Yes, to-day," muttered Brogard, sullenly. Then he quietly
took Sir Andrew's hat from a chair close by, put it on his own head,
tugged at his dirty blouse, and generally tried to express in
pantomime that the individual in question wore very fine clothes.
"SACRRE ARISTO!" he muttered, "that tall Englishman!"
Marguerite could scarce repress a scream.
"It's Sir Percy right enough," she murmured, "and not even in disguise!"
She smiled, in the midst of all her anxiety and through her
gathering tears, at the thought of "the ruling passion strong in
death"; of Percy running into the wildest, maddest dangers, with the
latest-cut coat upon his back, and the laces of his jabot unruffled.
"Oh! the foolhardiness of it!" she sighed. "Quick, Sir Andrew!
ask the man when he went."
"Ah yes, my friend," said Sir Andrew, addressing Brogard, with
the same assumption of carelessness, "my lord always wears beautiful
clothes; the tall Englishman you saw, was certainly my lady's friend.
And he has gone, you say?"
"He went. . .yes. . .but he's coming back. . .here--he ordered supper. . ."
Sir Andrew put his hand with a quick gesture of warning upon
Marguerite's arm; it came none too sone, for the next moment her wild,
mad joy would have betrayed her.
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