would do it, Picot
said; but gad's me, I paid him a hundred guineas, and here she's come
back again!"

"Blood . . . Colonel Blood," M. Picot had repeated at his death.

I had sprung up. Again M. Radisson held me back.

"How long ago was that, Colonel Blood?" he asked softly.

"Come twenty year this day s'ennight," mutters the freebooter. "'Twas
before I entered court service. Her father had four o' my fellows
gibbeted at Charing Cross, Gad's me, I swore he'd sweat for it! She
was Osmond's only child--squalling brat coming with nurse over Hounslow
Heath. 'Sdeath--I see it yet! Postillions yelled like stuck pigs,
nurses kicked over in coach dead away. When they waked up, curse me,
but the French poisoner had the brat! Curse me, I'd done better to
finish her myself. Picot ran away and wrote letters--letters--letters,
till I had to threaten to slit his throat, 'pon my soul, I had! And
now she must marry the boy----"

"Why?" put in Radisson, with cold indifference and half-listening air.

"Gad's life, can't you see?" asked the knave. "Osmond's dead, the
boy's lands are hers--the French doctor may 'a' told somebody," and
Colonel Blood of His Majesty's service slid under the table with the
judge.

M. Radisson rose and led the way out.

"You'd like to cudgel him," he said. "Come with me to Whitehall
instead!"

CHAPTER XXIX

THE KING'S PLEASURE

My Lady Kirke was all agog.

Pierre Radisson was her "dear sweet savage," and "naughty spark," and
"bold, bad beau," and "devilish fellow," and "lovely wretch!"

"La, Pierre," she cries, with a tap of her fan, "anybody can go to the
king's _levee_! But, dear heart!" she trills, with a sidelong ogle.
"Ta!--ta! naughty devil!--to think of our sweet savage going to
Whitehall of an evening! Lud, Mary, I'll wager you, Her Grace of
Portsmouth hath laid eyes on him----"

"The Lord forbid!" ejaculates Pierre Radisson.

"Hoighty-toighty! Now! there you go, my saucy spark! Good lack! An
the king's women laid eyes on any other man, 'twould turn his head and
be his fortune! Naughty fellow!" she warns, with a flirt of her fan.
"We shall watch you! Ta-ta, don't tell me no! Oh, we know this _gaite
de coeur_! You'll presently be _intime_ o' Portsmouth and Cleveland
and all o' them!"

"Madame," groans Pierre Radisson, "swear, if you will! But as you love
me, don't abuse the French tongue!"

At which she gave him a slap with her fan.

"An I were not so