"It is only that mad fool Martin Fairley," said Branksome.
"What is this news?" Sir John asked. His anger seemed to have gone, and
he spoke gently.
"That depends," said Martin, advancing into the hall with a step which
appeared to time itself with some unheard rhythm. "That depends on who
it is who hears it. Good news for those who hate King James; bad for
those who love priests and popery. How can such a mad fool as I am, Sir
Philip Branksome, guess to which side so many gallant gentlemen and fair
ladies may lean?"
There was grace, and some mockery perhaps, in the low bow he made, his
arms wide extended, the fiddle in one hand, the bow in the other; and
then, slowly standing erect again, he appeared to notice Barbara for the
first time.
"Drawn swords!" he exclaimed, "and my lady of Aylingford between them.
Another legend for the Abbey in the making--eh, Sir John? I must write a
song upon it, or else Mr. Fellowes shall. If his sword is as facile as
his pen, my Lord Rosmore, 'tis a marvel you are alive."
"This fool annoys me, Sir John. I am not in the mood for jesting."
"That, at least, is good news," said Martin, "for in this Monmouth
affair there is no jest but real fighting to be done.
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