threw a look of surprise not unmixed with silent reproach.

Still laughing, the page emerged from his ambush, knocking the dust from
his doublet with his hand, and eyeing the door as it closed after the
retreating Rector.

"I'll wager he thinks thou wert a wench, Tom," cried Charles; "but tell
me, how much of the worthy parson's discourse didst thou hear?"

"As much as you desire, Sir, and no more," was the discreet reply. "But
it is true that one is come from France who knows Lord Jermyn."

"Jermyn," said the King, half soliloquising, "is a son of a----; and I
would as lief run him through the body as I would open an oyster. But
that is neither here nor there; such pleasures are not for Kings." He
sate thinking for a few minutes, and then, looking up, added, "Go, Tom,
and tell Nicholas and the rest that I would see them here."

The page departed, presently returning to introduce four gentlemen,
after which, he again left the room and shut the door, which it would
be his office to keep against all intrusion while the conference
lasted.

One of the visitors appeared to take precedence; a tall, high-featured
man, with a stoop and a receding chin. This was Lord Hopton, one of the
most respectable of Charles's followers; an honourable, stupid,
middle-aged nobleman, who could never marshal his own thoughts and who,
necessarily, spoke without persuading others. The other Englishmen were
Nicholas, the Secretary of State, and the old Lord Cottington. The
fourth gentleman was Sir George Carteret, the Lieutenant-Governor, a