And then, amid the pause
which followed, Sophie Tarne began a plaintive little ballad in a
sweet, tremulous voice, which gathered strength as she proceeded.
It was a strange scene awaiting the return of Reuben Pemberthy,
whose tall form stood in the doorway before Sophie had finished her
sweet, simple rendering of an old English ballad. Reuben's round
blue eyes were distended with surprise, and his mouth, generally
very set and close, like the mouth of a steel purse, was on this
especial occasion, and for a while, wide open. Sophie Tarne singing
her best to amuse this vile and disorderly crew, who sat or stood
around the room half drunk, and with glasses in their hands, pipes
in their mouths, and the formidable, old-fashioned horse-pistols
in their pockets!
And who was the handsome man, with the long, black, flowing hair,
and a pale face, standing by Sophie's side--his Sophie--in a suit
of soiled brocade and tarnished lace, with a Ramilie cocked hat
under his arm and a pistol in his hand? The leader of these robbers,
the very man who had stopped him on the king's highway three hours
ago and taken every stiver which he had brought away from Barnet;
who had, with the help of these other scoundrels getting mad drunk
on his brandy, taken away his horse and left him bound to a gate
by the roadside because he would not be quietly robbed, but must
make a fuss over it and fight and kick in a most unbecoming fashion,
and without any regard for the numbers by whom he had been assailed.
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