. . Colonel Blood," M. Picot had repeated at his death.
I had sprung up. Again M. Radisson held me back.
"How long ago was that, Colonel Blood?" he asked softly.
"Come twenty year this day s'ennight," mutters the freebooter. "'Twas
before I entered court service. Her father had four o' my fellows
gibbeted at Charing Cross, Gad's me, I swore he'd sweat for it! She
was Osmond's only child--squalling brat coming with nurse over Hounslow
Heath. 'Sdeath--I see it yet! Postillions yelled like stuck pigs,
nurses kicked over in coach dead away. When they waked up, curse me,
but the French poisoner had the brat! Curse me, I'd done better to
finish her myself. Picot ran away and wrote letters--letters--letters,
till I had to threaten to slit his throat, 'pon my soul, I had! And
now she must marry the boy----"
"Why?" put in Radisson, with cold indifference and half-listening air.
"Gad's life, can't you see?" asked the knave. "Osmond's dead, the
boy's lands are hers--the French doctor may 'a' told somebody," and
Colonel Blood of His Majesty's service slid under the table with the
judge.
M. Radisson rose and led the way out.
"You'd like to cudgel him," he said. "Come with me to Whitehall
instead!"
CHAPTER XXIX
THE KING'S PLEASURE
My Lady Kirke was all agog.
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