THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
the Tower? The Tower? Ye aren’t got much o’ the hair o’ prisoners o’ state.”
Cornbury looked him over coolly, and then, with a laugh, “Bedad, my dear man, we’d had a smell of all three, I’m thinking.”
By this time half the crew of the vessel were gathered in a leering and grinning circle.
“Pst!” said one; “’tis the Duke o’ York in dishguise.”
“The Duke o’ York,” said another. “Ai! yi! an’ the little one’s the Prince o’ Wales.”
Blackbeard thrust his nose under that of the Irishman. “Well, Redhead,” he cried, “wot’s the crime? Murder or thieving or harson?” To lend force to his query he clapped his hand down upon Cornbury’s shoulder. The Irishman’s eyes gleamed and his hand went to his side, but he forgot that his weapon was no longer there. He shrugged a careless shoulder and drew away a pace.
“Whist!” he said, good-humoredly; “’tis the King I’ve just killed.”
“Yaw! ’Tis the red of the blood-royal upon
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