Mistress Pearson, rode to the rear of the pack train.
"We'll meet 'em here," he said. "Mind, now, I do the parleying."
Lance Falcon, booted and spurred, the long red feather in his hat matching his broad red sash, reined in before the group, his men close behind him.
"Give you good day, gentlemen," he said pleasantly. "It grieves me to see that those who were with you are no longer of your company."
Mr. O'Sullivan blinked for a moment uncomprehendingly. Then he turned to Jock Pearson.
"This man," he said distinctly in his bird-like treble, jerking his thumb towards Falcon, "is of a certainty very drunk."
Falcon started violently, stared at O'Sullivan, then smiled.
"Your pardon, sir," he said, "I am very sober, and I am in haste."
O'Sullivan calmly returned the stare, then spoke again to Jock.
"If he is not drunk," the little man chirped, "then he is a boor. He has not the courtesy to uncover before a lady."
Falcon's hand, resting on his sword-hilt, tightened, but his smile was broader than before. His eyes darted quickly from one to another of the three, and with a flourish he swept off his wide hat with its red—feather.
"A thousand apologies," he cried, bowing low to Meg. "In my haste I took the lady to be a man. I pray you overlook the error."
