"I have seen it, and I have known many Scots.You will find them in Paris and Avignon and Rome, with never a plack in their pockets.I have a feeling for exiles, sir, and I have pitied these poor people.They gave their all for the cause they followed."Clearly the Count shared my aunt's views of history--those views which have made such sport for us often at Carteron.Stalwart Whig as I am, there was something in the tone of the old gentleman which made me feel a certain majesty in the lost cause.
"I am Whig in blood and Whig in principle," I said,--"but I have never denied that those Scots who followed the Chevalier were too good to waste on so trumpery a leader."I had no sooner spoken the words than I felt that somehow I had been guilty of a betise.
"It may be so," said the Count."I did not bid you here, sir, to argue on politics, on which I am assured we should differ.But Iwill ask you one question.The King of England is a stout upholder of the right of kings.How does he face the defection of his American possessions?""The nation takes it well enough, and as for his Majesty's feelings, there is small inclination to inquire into them.Iconceive of the whole war as a blunder out of which we have come as we deserved.The day is gone by for the assertion of monarchic rights against the will of a people.""May be.But take note that the King of England is suffering to-day as--how do you call him?--the Chevalier suffered forty years ago.'The wheel has come full circle,' as your Shakespeare says.Time has wrought his revenge."He was staring into a fire, which burned small and smokily.
"You think the day for kings is ended.I read it differently.
The world will ever have need of kings.If a nation cast out one it will have to find another.And mark you, those later kings, created by the people, will bear a harsher hand than the old race who ruled as of right.Some day the world will regret having destroyed the kindly and legitimate line of monarchs and put in their place tyrants who govern by the sword or by flattering an idle mob.
This belated dogma would at other times have set me laughing, but the strange figure before me gave no impulse to merriment.Iglanced at Madame, and saw her face grave and perplexed, and Ithought I read a warning gleam in her eye.There was a mystery about the party which irritated me, but good breeding forbade me to seek a clue.
"You will permit me to retire, sir," I said."I have but this morning come down from a long march among the mountains east of this valley.Sleeping in wayside huts and tramping those sultry paths make a man think pleasantly of bed."The Count seemed to brighten at my words."You are a marcher, sir, and love the mountains! Once I would gladly have joined you, for in my youth I was a great walker in hilly places.Tell me, now, how many miles will you cover in a day?"I told him thirty at a stretch.
"Ah," he said, "I have done fifty, without food, over the roughest and mossiest mountains.I lived on what I shot, and for drink I had spring-water.Nay, I am forgetting.There was another beverage, which I wager you have never tasted.Heard you ever, sir, of that eau de vie which the Scots call usquebagh?
It will comfort a traveller as no thin Italian wine will comfort him.By my soul, you shall taste it.Charlotte, my dear, bid Oliphant fetch glasses and hot water and lemons.I will give Mr.
Hervey-Townshend a sample of the brew.You English are all tetes-de-fer, sir, and are worthy of it."The old man's face had lighted up, and for the moment his air had the jollity of youth.I would have accepted the entertainment had I not again caught Madame's eye.It said, unmistakably and with serious pleading, "Decline." I therefore made my excuses, urged fatigue, drowsiness, and a delicate stomach, bade my host good-night, and in deep mystification left the room.
Enlightenment came upon me as the door closed.There in the threshold stood the manservant whom they called Oliphant, erect as a sentry on guard.The sight reminded me of what I had once seen at Basle when by chance a Rhenish Grand Duke had shared the inn with me.Of a sudden a dozen clues linked together--the crowned notepaper, Scotland, my aunt Hervey's politics, the tale of old wanderings.
"Tell me," I said in a whisper, "who is the Count d'Albani, your master?" and I whistled softly a bar of "Charlie is my darling.""Ay," said the man, without relaxing a muscle of his grim face.
"It is the King of England--my king and yours."
