"In God's name say it then!" the Duke cried, his face sick with disgust.
"I will!" Ferguson answered hoarsely, leaning on the table which stood between them and thrusting forward his chin, his face still suffused with rage. "And see you how I will confound you! The Duke of Berwick is in England. The Duke of Berwick is in London. And what is worse for you, my lord, he lies to-night at Dr. Lloyd's in Hogsden Gardens. So take that information to yourself, my Lord Secretary, and make what you can of it--not forgetting the King's interest! Ha! ha! I have you tight there, I think."
His triumph, extreme and offensive as it was, seemed to be justified by the consternation--I can call it by no other name--which darkened the Duke's countenance as he listened, and held him a moment speechless and motionless, glaring at the other. At last, "And you sent to me to tell me this?" he cried.
"I did! I did! There is no other living man would have thought of it or done it. And why? Because there is no man can play my cards but myself."
"You devil!" my lord cried; and was silent.
Seeing that I knew little more of this of which they spoke than that the Duke of Berwick was King James' natural son and favourite, I was at a loss to comprehend, either the Duke's chagrin or Ferguson's very evident triumph. The latter's next words, however, went far towards explaining his jubilation; and if they did not perfectly clear up my lord's position--fully to enter into which required a nobility of sentiment and a nicety of honour on a par with his own--they enabled me to guess where the shoe pinched.
"D'ye take me now, my lord?" the plotter cried, with a savage grimace. "That concerns the King's service I think; and yet--I dare you to make use of it. Ay, my Lord Secretary, I dare you to make use of it!" he repeated, his unwholesome face deep red with excitement. "For why? Because you know that there will be a day of reckoning presently--and sooner, mayhap, than some think. You know that. Sooner or later it will come--it will come, and then 'Touch not mine anointed!' Or rather, touch but a hair of his Jamie's head, and his Majesty'll no forgive! He'll no forgive! There will be mercy for my Lord Devonshire, and my Lord Admiral, ay, and for that incarnate liar and devil, John Churchill! Ay, even for him, for he has made all safe both sides and so have the others. But do you touch the King's blood, though it be bastard--do you send to-night to the Bishop's and take him, and go on to what follows--and you may kneel like Monmouth, and plead like my Lady Russell, and you'll to the axe and the sawdust, when the time comes! Ay, you will! you will! you will!"