Jacobite, fear for his wife and babe gnawing at his heart; the spy, Weir
or Turnditch, with the noose he had made for another drawn round his own
neck; Master John Freake, the quiet, Quakerlike merchant, whose power was
rooted deep in those far haunts of the world's trade, so that we were here
shadowed and protected by the uttermost branches thereof. Last of all I
remember myself, with my heart thrumming good-morrow to Margaret.

"Come now, Houndsditch, or Turndish, or whatever it is," said his
lordship. "Precisely what have you to say?"

The poor devil had nothing to say. He was aflame to be off and out of
Master Freake's eyesight. He choked up something about mistakes, and zeal,
and forgiveness.

"That's enough! Out you go, the whole damn lot of you!" cried my lord.
These not being familiar military words of command, the men stuck there
like skittles. "Ground arms, or whatever it is!" he continued. "About
turn! Quick march!"

Their sergeant took charge of them and they filed out. Sir James followed
them and became their host, routing out servants to wait on them.

As soon as the door was closed on Sir James, his lordship hastened to
Master Freake's side, and entered into low and earnest conversation with
him. I walked across to the folios, hoping to find amongst them an
_editio princeps_ of Virgil, but was recalled by a loud "Oliver" from
Master Freake.

"Oliver," he said, when I reached his chair, "I should like you to know
the most noble the Marquess of Tiverton!"