Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
—MACBETH IV. 1.
But there was one more card which Ayloffe, the gambler, desired to play ere he lost sight momentarily of the man who was to be his tool in the carving of their respective fortunes.
He now rose from the table and went up to the door which gave on the private parlour. This he opened and looked in. Just as he had anticipated, there was but little change in the attitude of the three gentlemen whom he had left in the room.
Sir Anthony Wykeham still sat moodily leaning back in his chair, a shade more confused in his brain than he had been before, his eyes more shifty and uncertain in expression. A couple of empty bottles in front of him mutely explained the reason for this gradual change in the emphatic moraliser of a while ago.
Sir Knaith Bullock was still lying on the floor, in the midst of the straw which with idle hands he had gradually heaped up all round him, so that he seemed reclining in a nest. But he was not asleep now; he was singing chorus to the songs of my lord Rochester, who—frankly tipsy—made as much noise and sang as thoroughly out of tune as any of the plebeian revellers in the coffee room.
"Hello, Sir John!" he shouted lustily, "where in the devil's name have you and Stowmaries been hiding yourselves?"
His tongue was thick and the words fell inarticulately from his quivering lips. Sir Knaith Bullock rolled over in the straw in order to have a good view of the intruder.
"Where the devil—sh—sh—Stowmaries?" he babbled as incoherently as his friend.
"We have been busy finding an alternative husband for the tailor's daughter," said Sir John gaily.
"And have you found one?" queried Wykeham with vague, somnolent eyes fixed upon the speaker.
"Ay! that we have! And I pray you gentlemen to join the merry company in the coffee room and to pledge the bold adventurer in a monster goblet of wine."
"Egad!—you—you don't mean—that—hic!—" hiccupped Bullock who had rolled right over in the straw and now looked like a giant and frowzy dog with prickly wisps standing out of his perruque and sticking to his surcoat and velvet breeches. He contrived to work himself about until he got onto his feet, whereupon he stood there tottering and swaying the while his bleary eyes tried to take in what was going on around him.
A great shout issuing from the coffee room, great banging of mugs against the boards, loud laughter and the first verse of a song, roused Rochester from his apathy and Wykeham from his moodiness.
"They are passing roisterous over there!" remarked the latter, gazing covetously toward the open door.
"They are toasting the gallant adventurer," said Sir John; "I pray you, gentlemen, come and join us. Let us drink to the future husband of the tailor's daughter, the future possessor of one hundred and twenty thousand pounds in solid cash and of my lord Stowmaries' eternal gratitude. Let us drink to Michael Kestyon."
"Michael—Kesh—Keshtyon is it?" babbled Sir Knaith.
"The damned blackguard—" murmured Wykeham.
"I say hurrah for Michael Kestyon!" roared my lord Rochester lustily, "the beggar hath pluck. By Gad! won't old Rowley laugh at the adventure? Would I'd had the impudence to go through with it myself!—I say hurrah for Michael Kestyon!"
He lurched forward in the wake of Sir John who had once more turned towards the coffee room, and closely followed by the others, all four men shouting: "Hurrah for Michael Kestyon! Hurrah for the tailor's daughter!"
Their advent was greeted by more vigorous shouting, more singing and cries of: "Hurrah!" which issued from out the darkness. For by now only one last tallow candle was left spluttering and dripping, its feeble yellow rays illumining but one narrow circle of light wherein the remnant of a pie, an overturned bottle and a pool of red wine, stood out as the sole objects actually visible in the room.
In this total darkness, the noise of hoarse shouts, of cries for "Michael Kestyon!" of blasphemies and of oaths sounded weird and satanic, like a babel of ghouls exulting in the realms of the night.
Sir John paused at the door. He had wished to see Michael Kestyon commit himself finally before these other three gentlemen, who were almost partners in the conspiracy. He wanted to see the bond sealed with the word of honour of the rogue who—as Ayloffe well knew—would never break a pledge once given.
Therefore, he called loudly to Michael, and listened for the cheery tones of his voice. But no response came, only from out the gloom a curt answer from Stowmaries:
"Oh! 'tis no use calling for Michael! He hath gone!”