"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."