My conscience hath a thousand several tongues And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
—Richard III. V. 3.
In response to Ayloffe's whisper, Stowmaries had asked hurriedly:
 
"Is this the man?"
 
The older man nodded, and Stowmaries gazed long and searchingly upon his cousin, vaguely wondering if Sir John's astuteness had pointed in the right direction, if indeed this were the man most likely to lend himself for a large sum of money to the furtherance of an ignoble scheme.
 
Stowmaries saw before him a man—still in the prime of life but on whom dissipation, sleeplessness by night and starvation by day had already boldly writ their impress; a man like unto himself in feature, a distinct family resemblance being noticeable between the two cousins, but in Michael Kestyon—the reckless adventurer—the evenly placid expression born of a contented life had long ago yielded to the wild, hunted look, the mirror of a turbulent soul. He wore a surcoat which was obviously of rich cloth though the many vicissitudes of camp life had left severe imprints upon its once immaculate surface: beneath this coat there peeped out innocent of vest, the shirt, which once had been wrought by loving fingers, of fine linen and delicate stitchery, but now presented the appearance of a miscellaneous collection of tatters and darns with[104] here and there a dark stain on it, which spoke of more than one sword thrust in the breast, of the miseries of that life of fighting and of toil, of aches and pains and of ill-tended wounds.
 
The rest of Michael's attire was in keeping with the surcoat and the shirt: the faded silk sash long since deprived of tassels, the collar free from starch, the breeches a veritable motley of patchwork, and the high boots of untanned leather, stained a dark greenish brown from exposure to constant damp.
 
This then was the man who was most like to sell himself for so much money, and Stowmaries noting the squalor of Michael's attire, the dissipated yet wearied look in his face, ceased to wonder how it came that Sir John had thought of this wastrel, and in his mind fully approved of the choice.
 
Suddenly Michael Kestyon caught sight of the two men standing under the lintel of the door. He greeted them at once with a shout of welcome.
 
"My worthy coz!" he said gaily, "and if I mistake not 'tis gallant Sir John Ayloffe, the finest rogue that ever graced a court. Gentlemen!" he continued mocking, and advancing with mincing and unsteady steps towards the two men, "pray tell us—though by the Mass I call you right welcome—what procures this humble abode the honour of such distinguished company?"
 
Whilst the young man spoke, most of his companions had ceased both song and laughter; several faces—all flushed with heady liquor—were turned towards the door, whilst glances wherein suspicion fought with the confusing fumes of alcohol, were directed on the newcomers.
 
But Sir John Ayloffe with determined good humour had returned Michael's greeting with easy bonhomie.
 
[105]
 
"Nay, friend Michael," he said, the while he prudently closed the door behind him and Stowmaries, lest the noise in the coffee room awaken his sleeping friends, "your amiable cousin and I myself were tired of the sober assembly in the parlour and had desire for more merry company. I hope your call of welcome was no mere empty word, and that of a truth we may join your hospitable board."
 
With much gravity Michael surveyed Ayloffe and Stowmaries up and down, from the diamond buckles on their shoes to the elaborate curls of their gigantic perruques; then he turned to his friends, who had followed his every movement with that solemn attention peculiar to the drunkard, which tries yet fails to comprehend what is going on before him.
 
"What say you, gentlemen?" he said, "shall we admit these noble rogues to our table? My cousin here, as you see, has but lately emerged from the surveillance of his keeper, he inhabited a monkey garden for a considerable time, and hath collected a vast amount of hair on his head from the shavings of his many companions."
 
A terrific and prolonged shout of laughter shook the very walls of the room, the while Stowmaries, who suddenly had became pale with rage, placed a quivering hand on the hilt of his sword.
 
"Insolent beggar!—" he murmured in a hoarse voice, which, however, was completely drowned in the bibulous noise which had greeted Michael's impertinent sally and which rose and fell in a continuous roar for some considerable time, the while Michael himself, satisfied at the effect which he had produced, struck up the refrain of a drinking song.
 
"In the name of the lady whom you honour with your love, good my lord," whispered Ayloffe close to Stow[106]maries' ear and with impressive earnestness, "I entreat you to keep your temper. We have need of this wastrel for the success of our scheme, and a quarrel would of a surety ruin it completely."
 
Michael Kestyon now turned to his cousin once more.
 
"I pray you take your seats, gentlemen," he said pointing with unsteady gesture to a couple of empty chairs placed at the head of the table, "though you may not be aware of it, my friends here have shown a desire for the continuance of your presence amongst us. Had they not desired it they would have shown their disapproval by various hints more or less gentle, such as the throwing of a pewter mug at you or the elevation of their toe to the level of your majestic persons. But as it is ye may rest assured, ye are welcome here."
 
"I thank you, good Michael," said Ayloffe pleasantly, as in response to Michael's invitation he now advanced further into the room and took his seat at the head of the board, followed by Stowmaries who was making vain attempts to conceal his contempt of the proceedings, and to master his ill-humour.
 
"Indeed," continued Sir John addressing with gracious familiarity the united company present, "I know not what we have done to deserve your favours. Believe me, we came as suppliants desiring to be entertained by the most noted merrimakers in London."
 
Michael with the same mock gravity once more resumed his place at the table close beside Sir John Ayloffe. He drew two mugs towards him and from a gigantic pewter jug, he poured out full measures of a thick red liquid, which had the appearance of spiced wine.
 
The beverage certainly exhaled a remarkable methylic[107] odour, which from the nostrils seemed to strike straight into the brain making the blood seethe in the head and the eyes glow as with the heat of running fire. Moreover the mugs which Michael had filled, and then pushed towards the newcomers were not over clean. Even Sir John had much ado to keep his outward show of geniality and to mask his friend's more and more marked impatience and disgust.
 
"By the Mass, merry sirs," quoth Michael with boisterous hilarity, "an you really desire to be of our company we will grant you admittance. But first must ye pledge us in a full bumper of this nectar, concocted by good Master Foorde for the complete undoing of his most favoured guests. We drink to you, gentlemen, brother rogues an you please. If you are saints do not drink. The liquid will poison you."
 
"To you all, brother rogues," came in lusty accents from Sir John Ayloffe as he jumped to his feet, bumper in hand, "and may you accept us as two of the worst rogues that ever graced your hospitable board."
 
He quaffed the sickly, very heady liquid at one draught. He had kept himself uncommonly sober throughout the evening and the potion he knew could not do him a great deal of harm. He had a solid head and was not unused to the rough concoctions made up of cheap wines, of alcohol and sundry spices wherewith these noisy louts were wont still further to addle their over-confused pates.
 
Stowmaries would have demurred, despite the warning look thrown at him from beneath Sir John's heavy lids, but, looking up, he saw Michael's deep-set eyes fixed upon him with a measure of amusement not altogether free from sarcasm which vastly irritated him and without attempt[108]ing to hide his disgust he raised the heavy mug with a gesture of recklessness and contempt and he too drank it down at one draught.
 
There were loud shouts of approval at this, and the occasion was further improved by more drinking and the singing of various snatches culled from the most noted and most licentious songs.
 
But Michael was now examining Sir John Ayloffe very attentively. The latter having drunk expressed distinct appreciation of the beverage, and even made pretence, as he once more resumed his seat, of asking for more.
 
"You are looking at me with strange persistence, good Michael," he said at last with unalterable blandness, as he returned the younger man's questioning gaze.
 
"May not a cat look at a king," retorted the other lightly, "or a beggar gaze on the exalted personality of Sir John Ayloffe?"
 
"By all means, and welcome. But, on my faith, my personality is in no wise exalted, therefore, I may be permitted to ask again what is the cause of your flattering attention?"
 
"Curiosity," replied Michael curtly.
 
"Curiosity?"
 
"Yes. I was wondering in my mind why you are here to-night, and why you have brought mine estimable if somewhat weak-minded cousin with you here, in the very midst of the most evil-reputed crowd in London?"
 
"Oh!" protested Sir John gallantly, "'tis not the most evil-reputed crowd by any means. We, who are accustomed to the profligate life of a gentleman, look over leniently on the innocent if somewhat flashy debaucheries of these pleasure-lovers here."
 
"Yet are we no mere pleasure lovers, Sir John," said[109] Michael with a sudden air of seriousness which contrasted strangely with his flushed face and his slovenly and ragged attire. "You see here before you the very scum of humanity, the bits of flotsam and jetsam which the tide of fortune throws upon the shores of life; tattered rags of manhood, shattered lives, disappointed hopes! This room is full of these wreckages, like morsels of poisonous seaweed or of empty shells that litter the earth and make it foul with their noisome putrefaction. Elegant gentlemen like you and my fair cousin here should not join in this mêlée wherein crime falls against crime, and moral foulness pollutes the air. We are rogues here, sir, all of us," he added bringing his hand open-palmed crashing down upon the table, "rogues that have long ago ceased to blush, rogues that shrink neither before crime nor before shame. Rogues! rogues! all of us—not born so remember, but made rogues because of some one else's crime, some one else's shame!—but damned rogues for all that!"
 
He drank another bumper full of spiced wine! He had spoken loudly and hoarsely with wrathful eyes gazing straight ahead before him, as if striving through the foul smoke and vitiated air of this den of thieves to perceive that nook in a Kentish village, where in a tumble-down, miserable cottage, a woman who should have been Countess of Stowmaries was often on her knees scrubbing the tiled floors.
 
But Stowmaries's laugh, loud and almost malignant, broke the trend of Michael's thoughts.
 
"Ay, ay! Well said!" he shouted as loudly, as hilariously as had done the others. "Well said, Michael, for you at least, an rumour doth not lie, are a damned rogue for all that!"
 
"Nay! Nay!" interposed Ayloffe with mild amiability,[110] "you do your cousin Michael a grave injustice. I know that my lord of Rochester would back me up in what I say. All these gentlemen here are rogues but in name. They shout and they sing, they parade the streets and make merry, but they are, of a truth, of a right good sort, and if only a pleasing turn of fortune came their way, they would all become peaceful citizens in a trice and forswear all their deeds of profligacy, of which they are often cordially ashamed."
 
'Twas Michael's turn to laugh. He threw back his head so that the muscles of his neck stood out like cords, and he laughed loudly and immoderately, with a laugh that had absolutely no mirth in it.
 
"Ashamed of our roguery," he said at last, when that outburst had ceased and he was once more learning forward across the table with dark, glowing eyes wandering from one flushed face to another. "Hark at him, gentlemen! Sir John Ayloffe here would make saints of us! Hark ye, sir," he continued bringing his excited face close to that of Sir John, "I for one delight in mine own roguery. I am what I am, do you hear? what the buffetings of Fate and the injustice of man have made me. The more my mealy-mouthed cousin here exults in his courtliness and in his honour, the more do I glory in mine own disgrace. If that is honour," he said pointing with a trembling hand at Stowmaries who despite his brave attire cut but a sorry figure at the present moment, for he felt supremely ill at ease, "then am I content to be a rogue. The greater the villainy, the prouder am I to accomplish it, and if I am to go to Hell for it, then let my damnation be on the head of those who have driven me thither."
 
Stowmaries shrugged his shoulders in moody contempt.[111] Sir John looked like one profoundly impressed at an unforeseen aspect of affairs.
 
"As for me," growled one of the men sulkily, "pay me for it and I'll stick a knife into any person you list."
 
He was an elderly man with a red face and straggly white hair. He had been a scholar once, drunkenness and an inordinate love of gambling had made him what he now was.
 
"For ten golden sovereigns I'd poison the King!" quoth another thickly.
 
"For less than that I'd sell my soul!" added another.
 
"Thou canst not sell what thou hast not got," comes in a quick reply from the further end of the table.
 
"And you, friend Michael, what would you do for a fortune?" asked Sir John returning Michael's gaze with a firm, earnest look.
 
"I'd ask the devil to spare my cousin here!" replied Michael flippantly.
 
"You would not play the part of an hired assassin, I am sure."
 
"If I hated any one well enough, I'd kill him without pay," retorted the other.
 
"Or abduct a woman?"
 
"An she pleased me, I'd not want money to tell her so."
 
"Then meseems," sighed Sir John with a deprecating shrug of the shoulders, "that I have come to the wrong man with mine offer."
 
"There was no offer," quoth Michael curtly.
 
"Ay! of a fortune," rejoined the other calmly.
 
"Not a serious one."
 
"As serious as mine own presence here."
 
"You have come here prepared to make me an offer?"[112] reiterated the young man now, with contemptuous incredulity.
 
"The offer of a fortune," reiterated Ayloffe quietly.
 
"How much?"
 
"One hundred and twenty thousand pounds."
 
"One hundred—"
 
"And twenty thousand pounds," repeated Sir John with slow emphasis.
 
"Bah!—'tis a stupid and a purposeless lie!"
 
And Michael striving to look indifferent leaned back in his chair, then fell forward again with elbows resting heavily on the table the while his eyes glowing with the excitement of heady liquor and the vague suggestion only half expressed searched the face of the older man.
 
"Who would give a ne'er-do-well one hundred and twenty thousand pounds?" he reiterated in an unsteady voice, "and for what purpose? Are you fooling me, Sir John?"
 
"On my solemn word of honour, no!" asserted the latter calmly.
 
"Then for what purpose?" repeated Michael, whilst a sneer which looked almost evil for a moment quite distorted his face. "Am I to murder some offending stranger in the dark? bribe the King's physician to poison him, or turn informant against my cousin's co-religionists in England as is the fashion nowadays............