When the guard-house was reached, it was just sunrise, upon as lovely a morning as ever broke; and it contrasted strangely with the aspect of the men who had been out for so sinister a design.

Frank felt something of the kind as the door was opened to admit his father, one accustomed to command, and now ready to enter as a prisoner; but he had very little time then for private thought, for the colonel suddenly appeared, and without a glance at Sir Robert said sharply:

"Well?"

"Too late to stop it, sir," reported the officer in command. "Captain Sir Robert Gowan wounded in the arm."

"Baron Steinberg?"

"The doctor is with him, sir. A litter is to be sent at once."

"But—surely not—"

"No, not dead, sir; but run through the body."

"Tut, tut, tut!" ejaculated the colonel; and he turned now to Sir Robert with words of reproach on his lips, but the fixed look of pain and despair upon his officer's features disarmed him, and he signed to the prisoner to enter.

"What shall I do now, father?" said Frank. "Let me fetch another doctor."

"Nonsense, boy. Only a flesh wound. Go back to the Park at once; I want to hear what news there is."

"Of the baron, father?"

"Yes; make haste. I must know how he is."

Frank gave a quick, short nod, pressed his father's hand, and hurried out, to find Andrew, whom he had forgotten for the moment, walking up and down in front of a knot of soldiers, looking as fretful as a trapped wolf in a cage.

"They wouldn't let me come in," he said impatiently.

"I only got in because I was supporting my father," said Frank quickly. "Come along; I'm going to see how the baron is. Has the litter gone?"

"No; there are the men coming with it now."

The two lads set off running, Andrew's ill-humour passing off in action, and he chatted quite cheerily as they made for the Park.

"Your father was splendid, Frank!" he cried. "I was proud of him. What a lesson for those haughty sausage-eaters!"

"But it is a terrible business, Drew."

"Stuff! only an affair of honour. Of course it may be serious for your father if the baron dies: but he won't die. Some of his hot blood let out. Do him good, and let all these Hanoverians see what stuff the English have in them. Don't you fidget. Why, every one in the Guards will be delighted. I know I am. Wouldn't have missed that fight for anything."

"You don't ask how my father's wound is."

"No, and he would not want me to. Nasty, shallow cut, that's all. Here we are."

They trotted into the opening where the greensward was all trampled and stamped by the combatants' feet, and found the doctor kneeling by his patient just as they had left him, and the two Grenadiers with grounded arms standing with their hands resting on the muzzles of their pieces.

"Hallo! young men," cried the doctor, rising and stepping to them. "Is that litter going to be all day?"

"They're bringing it, sir," said Frank; "we ran on first. How is he now?"

Frank looked at the white face before him with its contracted features and ghastly aspect about the pinched-in lips.

"About as bad as he can be, my lad. A man can't have a sharp piece of steel run through his chest without feeling a bit uncomfortable. Lesson for you, my boys. You see what duelling really is. You'll neither of you quarrel and go out after this."

"Why not?" said Andrew sharply. "I should, and so would Frank Gowan, if we were insulted by a foreigner."

"Bah!" cried the doctor testily. "Nice language for a boy like you."

"Please tell me, sir," said Frank anxiously. "Will he get better?"

"Why do you want to know, you young dog?" said the doctor, turning upon him sharply. "No business here at all, either of you."

"My father is so anxious to know. I want to run back and tell him."

"Oh, that's it!" said the doctor gruffly. "No business to have broken out to fight; but I suppose I must tell him. Go back and say that the baron has got a hole in his chest and another in his back, and his life is trying to slip out of one of them; but I've got them stopped, and that before his life managed to pop out. Lucky for him that I was here; and I'm very glad, tell your father, that it has turned out as it has, for I stood all through the ugly business, expecting every moment that he would go down wounded to the death."

"Yes, I'll tell him," said Frank hurriedly.

"Don't rush off like that, boy. How should you like to be a surgeon?"

"Not at all, sir."

"And quite right," said the doctor, taking out his box, and helping himself to a liberal pinch of snuff. "Nice job for a man like me to have to do all I can to save the life of a savage who did all he could to murder one of my greatest friends. There, run back and tell him to make his mind easy about my lord here. I won't let him die, and as soon as I can I'll come and see to his arm."

The boys ran off again, passing the litter directly; but when they reached the guard-house, the sentry refused to let them pass, and summoned another of the Guards, who took in a message to the captain who made the arrest.

He came to the door directly, and learned what they wanted.

"I can't admit you," he said. "The colonel's orders have been very strict. I'll go and set your father's mind at rest, for of course he'll be glad that he did not kill his adversary."

The captain nodded in a friendly way, and went back.

"He can't help himself, Frank," said Andrew. "Don't mind about it. And there won't be any punishment. The King and the Prince will storm and shout a bit in Dutch, and then it will all blow over. Your father's too great a favourite with the troops for there to be any bother, and the bigwigs know how pleased every one will be that the Dutchman got the worst of it. I say, look; it's only half-past five now!"

"What: not later than that!" cried Frank in astonishment, for he would have been less surprised if he had heard that it was midday.

"Here they come," whispered Andrew; and, turning quickly, Frank saw the soldiers bearing in the wounded baron, with the doctor by his side, and they waited till they saw the litter borne in to the guardroom, and the door was shut.

"I say, who would have thought of this when we were going over to the messroom yesterday evening? What shall we do now—go back to bed?"

"To bed!" said Frank reproachfully. "No. I have the worst to come."

"What, are you going to challenge one of the Germans? I'll second you."

"Don't be so flippant. There, good-bye for the present."

"Good-bye be hanged! You're in trouble, and I'm going to stick to you like a man."

"Yes, I know you will, Drew; but let me go alone now."

"What for? Where are you going? You're not going to be so stupid as to begin petitioning, and all that sort of nonsense, to get your father off?"

"No," said Frank, with his lower lip quivering; "he'll fight his own battle. I've got a message from him for my mother, and I have to break the news to her."

Andrew Forbes uttered a low, soft whistle, and nodded his head.

"Before she gets some muddled story, not half true. I say, tell her not to be frightened and upset. Sir Robert shan't come to harm. Why, we could raise all London if they were to be queer to him. But take my word for it, they won't be."

Frank hardly heard his last words, for they were now in the calm, retired quadrangle of the Palace, one side of which was devoted to the apartments of the ladies in attendance upon the Queen and Princess, and the lad went straight to the door leading to his mother's rooms, and rang.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

FRANK HAS A PAINFUL TASK.

For the moment Frank Gowan forgot that it was only half-past five, and after waiting a reasonable time he rang again.

But all was still in the court, which lay in the shade, while the great red-brick clock tower was beginning to glow in the sunshine. There were some pigeons on one of the roofs preening their plumes, and a few sparrows chirping here and there, while every window visible from where the boy stood was whitened by the drawn-down blinds.

He rang again and waited, but all was as silent as if the place were uninhabited, and the whistling of wings as half a dozen pigeons suddenly flew down to begin stalking about as if in search of food sounded startling.

"Too soon," thought Frank; and going a little way along, he seated himself upon a dumpy stone post, to wait patiently till such time as the Palace servants were astir.

And there in the silence his thoughts went back to his adventures that morning, and the scene, which seemed to have been enacted days and days ago, came vividly before his eyes, while he thrilled once more with the feeling of mingled horror and excitement, as he seemed to stand again close behind Captain Murray, expecting moment by moment to see his father succumb to the German's savage attack.

There it all was, as clear as if it were still going on, right to the moment when the baron missed his desperate thrust and literally fell upon his adversary's point.

"It was horrid, horrid, horrid," muttered the lad with a shiver; and he tried to divert his mind by thinking of how he should relate just a sufficiency of the encounter to his mother, and no more.

"Yes," he said to himself. "I'll just tell her that they fought, that father was scratched by the baron's sword, and then the baron was badly wounded in return.

"That will do," he said, feeling perfectly satisfied; "I'll tell her just in this way."

But as he came to this determination, doubt began to creep in and ask him whether he could relate the trouble so coolly and easily when his mother's clear eyes were watching him closely and searching for every scrap of truth; and then he began to think it possible that he might fail, and stand before her feeling guilty of keeping a great deal back.

"I know I shall grow confused, and that she will not believe that poor father's arm was only scratched, and she'll think at once that it is a serious wound, and that the baron is dead."

He turned so hot at this that he rose quickly, and walked along all four sides of the quadrangle to cool himself before going to the door once more and giving a sharp ring.

"Are the servants going to lie in bed all day?" he said peevishly. "They ought to be down before this."

But the ring meeting with no response, he sat down again to try and think out what the consequences of the events of the morning would be. Here, however, he found himself confronted by a thick, black veil, which shut out the future. It was easy enough to read the past, but to imagine what was to come was beyond him.

At last, when quite an hour had passed, he grew impatient, and rang sharply this time, to hear a window opened somewhere at the top of the house; and when he looked up, it was to see a head thrust forth and rapidly withdrawn.

Five minutes or so afterward he heard the shooting of bolts and the rattling down of a chain, the door was opened, and a pretty-looking maidservant, with sleep still in her eyes, confronted him ill-humouredly.

"How late you are!" cried Frank.

"No, sir; please, it's you who are so early. We didn't go to bed till past one."

"Is Lady Gowan up yet?"

"Lor' bless you, sir, no! Why—oh, I beg your pardon, I'm sure, sir. I didn't know you at first; it's her ladyship's son, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course. I want to see her directly."

"But you can't, sir. She won't be down this two hours."

"Go and tell my mother I am here, and that I want to see her on important business."

"Very well, sir; but I know I shall get into trouble for disturbing her," said the maid ill-humouredly. "She was with the Princess till ever so late."

The girl went upstairs, leaving Frank waiting in the narrow passage of the place, and at the end of a few minutes she returned.

"Her ladyship says, sir, you are to come into her little boudoir and wait; she'll dress, and come down in a few minutes."

Frank followed the maid to the little room, and stood waiting, for he could not sit down in his anxiety. He felt hot and cold, and as if he would have given anything to have hurried away, but there was nothing for it but to screw up his courage and face the matter.

"She'll be half an hour yet," he muttered, "and that will give me time to grow cool; then I can talk to her."

He was wrong; for at the end of five minutes there was the rustling of garments, and Lady Gowan entered, in a loose morning gown, looking startled at being woke up by such a message.

"Why, Frank, my darling boy, what is it?" she cried, as the boy shrank from her eyes when she embraced him affectionately. "You are ill! No; in trouble! I can see it in your eyes. Look up at me, my boy, and be in nature what you are by name. You were right to come to me. There, sit down by my side, and let it be always so—boy or man, let me always be your confidante, and I will forgive you and advise you if I can."

Frank was silent, but he clung to her, trembling.

"Speak to me, dear," she said, drawing him to her and kissing his forehead; "it cannot be anything very dreadful—only some escapade."

His lips parted, but no words would come, and he shivered at the thought of undeceiving her.

"Come, come, dear," she whispered, "there is no one to hear you but I; and am I not your mother?"

"Yes, but—"

That was all. He could say no more.

"Frank, my boy, why do you hesitate?" she whispered, as she passed her soft, warm hand over his forehead, which was wet and cold. "Come, speak out like a brave lad. A boy of your age should be manly, and if he has done wrong own to it, and be ready to bear the reproof or punishment he has earned. Come, let me help you."

"You help me?" he gasped.

"Yes, I think I can. You dined at the mess last night; your face is flushed and feverish, your head is hot, and your hands wet and cold. Phoebe tells me that in her sleep she heard you ringing at the bell soon after five. Is this so?"

"Yes," he said with his eyes and a quick nod of the head.

"Hah! And am I right in saying that you have had scarcely any or no sleep during the night?"

He nodded again quickly, and felt as if it would be impossible to try and set his mother right.

"Hah! I am angry with you. I feel that I ought to be. There has been some escapade. Your father would have watched over you while he was there. It must have been afterwards—Andrew Forbes and some of the wild young officers. Yes, I see it now; and I never warned you against such a peril, though it is real enough, I fear."

"Oh, mother, mother!" groaned the boy in agony.

"I knew it," she said sternly; "they have led you away to some card- or dice-playing, and you have lost. Now you are fully awake to your folly."

The boy made a brave effort to speak out, but still no words would come.

"Well," said Lady Gowan, taking his hand to hold it firmly between her own.

But he was still silent.

"I am angry, and cruelly disappointed in you, Frank," she said sternly. "But your repentance has been quick, and you have done what is right. There, I will forgive you, on your solemn promise that you will not again sin like this. I will give you the money to pay the miserable debt, and if I have not enough I will get it, even if I have to sell my diamonds."

She looked at him as it expecting now a burst of repentant thanks; but he remained speechless, and a feeling of resentment against him rose in Lady Gowan's breast, as she felt that this was not the return the boy should have made to her gentle reproof, her offer to free him from his difficulty, and her eyes flashed upon him angrily.

"Oh, mother!" he cried, "don't look at me like that."

"I must, Frank," she said, loosing his hand, "you are not meeting me in this matter as you should."

"No, no," he cried, finding his tongue now, and catching her hands in his, as he sank on his knees before her. "Don't shrink from me, though it does seem so cruel of me."

"More cruel, my boy, than you think," she said, as she resigned her hands to him lovingly once more. "Speak out to me, then. It is what I fear?"

"Oh no, no, mother darling," he groaned. "I must speak now. It is far worse than that."

"Worse!" she cried, with a startled look in her eyes. "Some quarrel?"

He bowed his head, partly in assent, partly to escape her piercing look.

"And you are no longer a schoolboy—you wear a sword. Oh, Frank, Frank! you—Andrew Forbes."

He shook his head and bowed it down. Then he raised it firmly and proudly, and met his mother's eyes gazing wildly at him now, as she tried to release her hands, but as he held them tightly, pressed them with her own against her throbbing breast.

"He told me to come to you as a man and break the news."

"He—your father—told you—to break the news. Ah, I see it all. A quarrel—and they have fought—but he bade you come. Then he lives!"

"Yes, yes, mother dear. He is wounded, but very slightly in the arm."

Lady Gowan uttered a low, piteous cry, and sank upon her knees beside her son, with her lips moving quickly for some moments, as he supported her where they knelt together.

"Wounded—dangerously?" she moaned.

"No, no; believe me, mother, slightly in his sword arm. He walked back with me."

"To his quarters?"

"No. He was arrested."

"Ah!" ejaculated Lady Gowan. "Arrested—why?"

Frank hastily explained.

"Oh the horror of these meetings! But this man, your father struck him? But why?"

Frank repeated his father's message, and Lady Gowan looked bewildered.

"I cannot understand," she said. "These German officers are favourites of the King, and the baron must have cruelly insulted your father, or he, who is so brave and strong and gentle, would never have done this. They are proud and overbearing, and I know treat our English officers with contempt. Yes, it must have been from that. When was it?"

"At daybreak."

"Where?"

"Just yonder in the Park."

"And your father took you?" said Lady Gowan, with a look of horror.

"No, no, mother; he did not know I was there till it was just over, and he told me how it was."

"Yes, I see."

"I was horrified and frightened when Drew came and told me. I could not keep away."

"No," she said softly, "of course not. I should have gone myself had I known. But your good, brave father wounded, and the man who insulted him escaped unhurt!"

"No, no, mother; he is—"

"Frank! Not dead?" she cried in horror, for the boy stopped.

"No, no; but very dangerously wounded. The soldiers carried him back on a litter, but the doctor says that he will live."

Once more, while she knelt there, Lady Gowan's lips moved as her eyes closed, and she bent down her head above her son's shoulder.

At last she raised it, and said, firmly:

"We must be brave over this terrible misfortune, Frank dear. But tell me; do I know the worst?"

"Yes, yes, mother; I meant to keep a great deal back, and I can't look in your eyes, and say anything that is not perfectly true."

"And never will, my son," she cried, with a wildly hysterical burst of tears, which she checked in a few moments. "There, your mother is very weak, you see, dear; but I am going to be strong now. Then that explains the sternness of the arrest. Let us look the matter in the face. Your father struck this German nobleman, the guest of the regiment. They fought this morning, and the cause of the trouble is badly hurt. The King and the Prince will be furious. They will look upon it as a mutinous attack upon one of their favourites. Yes, I must see the Princess at once. I will go to her chamber now; so leave me, my boy, and wait. I will write to you, and I must try and get a note to your father. There, go, my own brave boy, and be comforted. The trouble may not be so great after all, for we have a friend who loves us both—the Princess, and she will help me in my sore distress. There, go, my boy; she must have the news from me, as your father contrived that it should come to me. I can go to her chamber at any time, for she has told me again and again that she looks upon me as her dearest friend."

The next minute Frank was crossing the quadrangle on his way back, feeling relieved of much of his burden; but before he reached the quarters occupied by the royal pages, Andrew Forbes stood before him.

"At last!" he said. "I've been waiting here ever since. How does she take it?"

"Bravely," said Frank, with a proud look. "She has just gone in to tell the Princess."

"And she will get Sir Robert out of the scrape if she can. But it won't do, Frank," said Andrew, shaking his head. "She'll be very kind to your mother, but you may as well know the worst. She can't; for his Majesty will have something to say about his baron. Your father might as well have hit the King himself."



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE KING'S DECREE.

"Any fresh news?"

"No. Have you any?"

"Not much; but I've seen the doctor again this morning."

"You told me yesterday that he said you were not to dare to come to him any more."

"Yesterday! Why, that was four days ago."

"Nonsense! That would have been before the duel."

"I say, Frank, are you going out of your mind?"

"I don't know," said the boy wearily. "My head's muddled with want of sleep."

"Muddled? I should think it is. Why, it's a week to-day since that glorious fight in the Park."

"Glorious?"

"Yes. I wish our officers would challenge all the German officers, fight them, and wound them, and send them out of the country."

"Don't talk nonsense. Talk about the doctor. He did tell you not to come any more."

"Yes; he said he wouldn't be bothered by a pack of boys."

"Yes; he said the same to me every time I went."

"Every time! Have you been there much?"

"About four times a day."

"No wonder he was snappish to me, then."

"I suppose it has been tiresome, and he has called me all sorts of names, and said I worried his life out; but he always ended by smiling and shaking hands."

"You haven't been this morning of course?"

"Yes, I have."

"Well?"

"He says father's arm is going on well; but the baron is very bad."

"Serve him right."

"But I want him to get well."

"Oh, he'll get well some day. He's such a big, thick fellow, that it's a long wound from front to back, and takes time. Be a lesson to him. I say, how's Lady Gowan?"

"Very miserable and low-spirited."

"Humph!" ejaculated Andrew; and he glanced in a curious, furtive way at his companion. "I say, I thought the Princess was to speak to the King, and get your father pardoned."

"She did speak to him, and the Prince has too."

"Well?"

"We don't know any more yet. I suppose my father is kept under arrest so as to punish him."

"Yes," said Andrew, with a strange hesitation, which took Frank's attention.

"Why did you say 'yes' like that?" he cried, with his dull, listless manner passing off, and a keen, eager look in his eyes.

"Did I say 'yes' like that?"

"You know you did. What is it you are keeping back, Drew?"

"I say, don't talk like that," said Andrew petulantly. "I never saw such a fellow as you are. Here, only the other day you looked up to me in everything, and I tried to teach you how to behave like a young man of the world in courtly society."

"Yes, you did, and I am greatly obliged; but—"

"Seems like it," said Andrew sharply. "Then all at once you set up your hackles, and show fight like a young cockerel, and begin bouncing over me—I mean trying to; and it won't do, young Gowan. I'm your senior."

"Yes, yes, I know," cried Frank angrily; "but this is all talk, just for the sake of saying something to put me off. Now speak out; what is it you're keeping back?"

"There you go again, bully Gowan! Here, I say, you know I'm not going to stand this. You keep your place."

"Don't, don't, Drew, when I'm in such trouble!" cried Frank appealingly.

"Ah! that's better. Now you've dropped into your place again, boy."

"You have something fresh—some great trouble—and you are hiding it from me."

"Well, how can I help it?" said Andrew. "You're bad enough as it is, and I don't want to make matters worse."

"But that's what you are doing. Why don't you speak?"

"Because you'll go and tell dear Lady Gowan, and it will half kill her."

"What!" cried Frank, springing at his companion, and catching him by the shoulder.

"And I look upon her as if she was my mother as well as yours, and I'd cut off my hand sooner than hurt her feelings more."

"I knew there was something fresh," cried Frank excitedly; "and, whatever it is, I must tell her, Drew. I promised her that I'd be quite open, and keep nothing from her."

"There, I knew I was right. How can I help keeping it back? And don't, Frank lad. I say, how strong you are. You're ragging my collar about. I shan't be fit to be seen."

"Then why don't you speak? It's cruel, horrible," cried Frank hoarsely.

"Because it comes so hard, old lad. I feel just as you told me you felt when you had to go and tell Lady Gowan that morning."

"Yes, yes, I know; but do—do speak! You've tortured me enough."

"I've just seen Captain Murray."

"Ah!"

"He was coming out of the colonel's quarters."

"Well? Be quick—oh, do be quick!"

"I ran to him, and he took me into his room and told me."

"Yes—told you—what?"

"He said he was very sorry for you and Lady Gowan, but the King was as hard as a rock. The Prince had been at him, and the Princess too; but he would hardly listen to them, and the most he would do was—It seems that Steinberg is a very old favourite."

"Oh, I knew all that long ago! Why do you break off in that tantalising way?"

"There is to be no regular court-martial, such as was to have been as soon as the doctor said Sir Robert could bear it."

"Yes, yes."

"Oh, it's no, no, Frank. He's to be dismissed from his regiment."

"I was afraid so," cried Frank. "But to exchange into another. What regiment is he to go in?"

Andrew was silent.

"Well, go on! Why don't you speak?" cried Frank wildly. "I asked you what regiment he was to go in."

"No regiment at all. He's dismissed from the King's service, and he is to leave the country. If he comes back, he is to be severely punished."

"Oh, they could not punish him more severely," cried Frank, with an angry stamp of the foot.

"Yes, they could. His Majesty"—Andrew Forbes said the two last words with bitter irony in his tones—"might order his execution."

"Then we are all to go away," said Frank, frowning.

"I don't know about that," replied Andrew. "But it's a good thing for your father."

"What! A good thing?"

"Yes; to get out of the service of such a miserable usurper. If it were not for the terrible upset to Lady Gowan, I should be ready to congratulate her."

"That will do," said Frank sharply. "Don't get introducing your principles here."

"Our principles," whispered Andrew, with a meaning look.

"Your principles," continued Frank, with emphasis. "I'm in no temper for that, and I don't want to quarrel. I must go and tell her as soon as I'm off duty. She'll be ready to hate the sight of me for always bringing her bad news."

But before the boy was relieved from his daily duties in the anteroom, a note was brought to him from Lady Gowan confirming Andrew's words. In fact, Frank's mother had known the worst over-night. But there was other news in the letter which told the lad that his father was to leave London that evening, that he was to accompany his mother to see him for a farewell interview, and that she wished him to be ready to go with her at seven o'clock.

Frank read the letter twice, and felt puzzled. He read it again, and sought out his friend.

"Been to see Lady Gowan?" Andrew asked.

"No; read this."

The lad took the letter, shrugged his shoulders as he read it, and handed it back.

"That's plain enough," he said bitterly.

"Do you think so? I don't. I can't make out the end."

"You are to call for Lady Gowan, and take her to Sir Robert's quarters."

"No, no, I mean about a farewell visit."

"Well, isn't that plain?"

"But we shall go too."

"I don't think so. Your mother is the Princess's friend, and she does not wish to lose her. You will both have to stay."

"Impossible!" cried Frank excitedly.

"Well, we shall see," said Andrew meaningly.

That evening Frank took his mother, closely veiled, to Sir Robert's quarters, where he had been ever since the duel, with a sentry beneath his window, another stationed at his door.

The pass Lady Gowan bore admitted them at once, and the next minute they were in Sir Robert's room, to find him looking pale and stern, busily finishing with his servant the preparations for an immediate start.

The man was dismissed, and father, mother, and son were alone.

Lady Gowan was the first to speak.

"You know the orders that have been given, Robert?" she said.

"Yes; I travel with a strong escort to Harwich, where I am to take ship and cross."

"Of course we are going with you, Robert," said Lady Gowan.

Sir Robert was silent for a few moments, and Frank stood watching him anxiously, eager to hear his reply.

"No," he said at last. "I am driven out of the country, and it would not be right to take you with me now."

"Robert!" cried Lady Gowan.

"Hush!" he said appealingly. "I have much to bear now; don't add to my burden. At present I have no plans. I do not even know where I shall direct my steps. I am to be shipped off to Ostend. It would be madness to take you from here yet. The Princess is your friend, and I understand that the Prince is well-disposed toward me. You must stay here for the present."

"But I am sure that her Royal Highness will wish me to leave her service now."

"And I am not," said Sir Robert. "For the present I wish you to stay."

Lady Gowan bent down and kissed his hand in obedience to her husband's wishes.

"But you will take me with you, father?" cried Frank.

"You, my boy? No. You cannot leave your mother. She and I both look to you to fill my place till the happier days come, when I can return to England. You hear me, Frank?"

A protest was on the lad's lips; but there was a stern decision in Sir Robert's eyes and tones which silenced it, and with quivering lip he stood listening to his father's instructions, till there was a tap at the door, and an officer appeared to announce that the visitors must leave.

"Very well," said Sir Robert quietly, and the officer withdrew.

"Oh, father!" cried Frank, "let me go and ask for another hour."

"No, my boy," said Sir Robert, firmly. "It is better so. Why should we try to prolong pain? Good-bye, Frank, till we meet again. You must be a man now, young as you are. I leave your mother in your care."

His farewell to Lady Gowan was very brief, and then at his wish she tore herself away, and with her veil drawn-down to hide her emotion, she hurried out, resting on Frank's arm; while he, in spite of his father's recent words, was half choked as he felt how his mother was sobbing.

"Don't speak to me, dear," she whispered, as they reached her apartments. "I cannot bear it. I feel as if we were forsaking your father in the time of his greatest need."

It was painful to leave her suffering; but there was a feeling of desire urging the lad away, and he hurried out, finding Andrew faithfully waiting at the door, and ready to press his hand in sympathy.

"It's terribly hard, lad," he said. "Oh, dear; what a wicked world it is! But you are coming to see him go?"

Frank nodded—he could not trust himself to speak—and they started back for Sir Robert's quarters.

They were none too soon; for already a couple of coaches were at the door, and a military guard was drawn up, keeping back a little crowd, the wind of the approaching departure having got abroad.

The lads noticed that fully half were soldiers; but they had little time for making observations, for already Sir Robert was at the door, and the next minute he had stepped into the first coach, the second, standing back, being filled with guards, one being beside the coachman on the box, and two others standing behind. An officer and two soldiers followed Sir Robert. The door was banged to as Frank and Andrew dashed forward, and forced their way past the sentries who kept back the crowd.

It required little effort, for as soon as the Guards recognised them they gave place, and enabled them to run beside the coach for a little way, waving their hands to the banished man.

Sir Robert saw them, and leaned forward, and his face appeared at the window, when, as if influenced by one spirit, the soldiers uttered a tremendous cheer, the rest joined in, and the next minute the boys stood panting outside in front of the clock tower, with the carriages disappearing on their way east.

"Oh, Frank, Frank!" cried Andrew excitedly, "is this free England? If we had only known—if we had only known."

Frank's heart was too full for speech, and, hardly heeding his companion's words, he stood gazing after the two coaches, feeling lower in spirits than he ever had before in his life.

"We ought to have known that the soldiers and the people were all upon his side. A little brave effort, with some one to lead them, and we could have rescued him. The men would have carried everything before them."

"Rather curious expressions of opinion for one of the royal pages, young gentleman," said a stern voice.

"Captain Murray!" cried Andrew, who was thoroughly startled to find his words taken up so promptly by some one behind him.

"Yes, my lad, Captain Murray. I am glad, Gowan, that such words did not fall from you, though in your case they would have been more excusable."

"Perhaps, sir," cried Frank, in his loyalty to his friend, though truthfully enough, "it was because I could not speak. I wish I had helped to do it, though."

"Hah! Yes, brave and manly, but weak and foolish, my boy. Recollect what and where you are, and that whispers spoken in the precincts of the Palace often have echoes which magnify them and cause those who uttered them much harm."

"I'm not sorry I spoke," said Andrew hotly. "It has been horribly unjust to Sir Robert Gowan."

"Suppose we discuss that shut in between four walls which have no ears, my lad. But let me ask you this, my hot-blooded young friend—suppose you had roused the soldiers into rising and rescuing Sir Robert Gowan, what then?"

"It would have been a very gallant thing, sir," said Andrew haughtily.

"Of course, very brave and dashing, but a recklessly impulsive act. What would have followed?"

Captain Murray turned from Andrew to Frank, and the latter saw by the dim lamplight that the words were addressed more particularly to him.

"We should have set him free."

"No. You might have rescued him from his guards; but he would have been no more free than he is now. He could not have stayed in England, but would have had to make for the coast, and escape to France or Holland in some smuggler's boat. You see he would have been just where he is now. But it is more probable that you would not have secured him, for the guard would at the first attempt have been called upon to fire, and many lives would have been sacrificed for nothing."

"I thought you were Sir Robert Gowan's friend, sir," said Andrew bitterly.

"So I am, boy; but I am the King's servant, sworn to obey and defend him. His Majesty's commands were that Sir Robert should leave his service, and seek a home out of England. It is our duty to obey. And now listen to me, Mr Andrew Forbes, and you too, Frank Gowan; and if I speak sternly, remember it is from a desire to advise my old comrade's son and his companion for the best. A still tongue maketh a wise head. But I am not going to preach at you; and it is better that you should take it to heart—you in particular, Andrew Forbes, for you occupy a peculiar position here. Your father is a proscribed rebel."

"You dare to say that of my father!" cried the lad, laying his hand upon his sword.

"Yes, you foolish lad. Let that hilt alone. Keep your sword for your enemies, not for your friends, even if they tell you unpleasant truths. Your tongue, my lad, runs too freely, and will get you sooner or later into trouble. Men have been punished for much less than you have said, even to losing their lives."

"Is this what a King's officer should do?" cried Andrew, who was white with anger,—"play the part of a spy?"

"Silly, hot-headed boy," said Captain Murray. "I saw you both, and came up to speak to my old friend's son, when I could not help hearing what your enemies would call traitorous remarks. Frank, my lad, you are the younger in years, but you have the older head, and you must not be led away by this hot-blooded fellow. There, come both of you to my quarters."

"Frank, I'm going to my room," said Andrew, ignoring the captain's words.

"No, you are coming with us," said Captain Murray. "Frank, my lad, your father asked me to give an eye to you, and bade me tell you that if you were ever in any difficulty you were to come to me for help. Remember that please, for I will help Robert Gowan's son in every way I can."

The friendly feeling he had already had for his father's companion all came back on the instant, and Frank held out his hand.

"Hah, that's right, boy. You have your father's eye for a friend. Come along, and let's have a quiet chat. I want company to-night, for this business makes one low-spirited. Come along, Hotspur."

"Do you mean to continue insulting me, sir?" said Andrew sharply.

"I? No. There, you are put out because I spoke so plainly. Look here, Forbes, I should not like to see you arrested and dismissed from your service for uttering treasonable words, and you will be one of these days. It is being talked about in the Palace, but fortunately only by your friends. Come, it is only a few steps, and we may as well talk sitting down."

The lad was on the point of declining coldly; but the officer's extended hand and genial smile disarmed him, and there was something so attractive in his manner that, unable to resist, he allowed Captain Murray to pass an arm through his and march both lads to his quarters.

"Hah! this is better," he said, as he placed chairs for his visitors. "Poor old Gowan! I wish he were with us. Why, Frank, my lad, what a series of adventures in a short time! Only the other night, and we were all sitting comfortably at dinner. How soon a storm springs up. Heard the last about our German friend?"

"Enemy," muttered Andrew.

"Well, enemy if you like. I saw the doctor just before I caught sight of you, and he told me—"

"Not dead?" said Frank wildly.

"No. He has made a sudden change for the better. The doctor says he has the constitution of an ox, and that has pulled him through."

"Ugh!" ejaculated Andrew; and Frank spoke hastily to cover his companion's rudeness.

"How long do you think my father will have to be away?"

"Till his. Majesty dies, or, if he is fortunate, till your mother and the Princess have won over his Royal Highness to do battle with his father on your father's behalf."

"But do you think he is likely to succeed?"

"I hope so, my lad. The King may give way. It will not be from friendly feeling, or a desire to do a kind action—what do you call it?—an act of clemency."

"He'll never pardon Sir Robert!" cried Andrew, bringing his fist down upon the table heavily.

"I think he will," said Captain Murray; "for his Majesty is a keen man of the world, a good soldier, and a good judge of soldiers. I think that out of policy, and the knowledge that he is very unpopular, he may think it wise to pardon a gallant officer, and to bring him back into the ranks of the men whom he can trust."

"Yes, yes," cried Frank excitedly; and his eyes brightened as he treasured up words, every one of which would, he felt sure, gladden his mother's heart.

"Hadn't you better get up and see if any one is listening at the door, Captain Murray?" said Andrew sarcastically.

"Because my words sound treasonable, my lad?"

"Yes, and may be magnified by the echoes of the Palace walls, sir."

The big, frank officer sank back in his chair, and laughed merrily.

"You're a queer fellow, Forbes—a clever fellow—with a splendid memory; but—there, don't feel insulted—you must have been meant for a woman: you have such a sharp, spiteful tongue. No, no, no—sit still. You must take as well as give. Do you two ever fall out, Frank? He's as hot as pepper."

"Yes, often," said Frank, smiling; "but we soon make it up again, for he's about the bravest and best fellow I ever knew."

As Frank spoke, he reached over and gripped his friend's arm warmly.

"You don't know how good and kind and helpful he has been in all this trouble."

"I believe it," said Captain Murray, smiling. "He's a lucky fellow too, for he has won a good friend. You hear, Hotspur? A good friend in Frank here, who is the very spit of his father, one of the bravest, truest soldiers that ever lived."

These words were said in a way which made Frank feel a little choky, and turned the tide of Andrew Forbes's anger, which now ebbed rapidly away.

"You'll come to me, my lads, both of you, if you want help?" said the captain, at their parting an hour later.

"Yes, of course," cried Frank eagerly; but Andrew Forbes was silent.

"And you, Andrew lad. Gowan asked me to be a friend to you too; for he said that Lady Gowan liked you, and that it was a hard position for a lad like you to be placed in, and he is right."

"Did Sir Robert say that, sir?" said the lad huskily.

"Yes, when we said good-bye."

"Yes, I will come to you, sir—when I can."

The last words were to himself, and he was silent for some time as they walked back to their quarters.

"I wish I hadn't such a sharp temper, Frank," he said at last. "But it is a queer position, and the harness galls me. I can't help it. I ought to go away."



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE DOCTOR MAKES A SUGGESTION AND FRANK IS STARTLED.

"Your mother must be a favourite with the Princess, and no mistake," said Andrew one morning, "or after that business of your father's you would never be allowed to stay."

"If you come to that," said Frank in retort, "if one half of what I know about were to get abroad, where would you be?"

"Perhaps in two pieces, with the top bit carefully preserved, as a warning to treasonable people—so called."

"I don't think that," said Frank gravely; "for they would not go to such lengths with a mere boy."

"Who are you calling a mere boy?"

"You," replied Frank coolly. "You are quite as young as I am in some things, though you are so much older in others."

"Perhaps so," said Andrew rather haughtily. "Anyhow, I don't feel in the least afraid of my principles being known. You can't tell tales, being one of us."

"I—am—not—and—never—will—be!" said Frank, dividing his words as if there were a comma between each pair, and speaking with tremendous emphasis.

"Oh, all right," said Andrew, with a merry laugh. "I should like to hear you say that to Mr George Selby."

"I'd say it plainly to him and the whole of the members of his club," said Frank hotly.

"Not you. Wouldn't dare. Come with me on Friday and say it."

"I? No. Let them come to me if they want it said."

"They don't. They've got you, and they'll keep you."

"Time will prove that, Drew. I'm very glad, though, that you have given up going."

"Given up what?"

"Going to those dangerous meetings; and, I say, give up being so fond of staring at yourself in the glass. I never did see such a vain coxcomb of a fellow."

"H-r-r-ur!" growled Andrew, as he swung round fiercely upon his fellow-page. "Oh, if I had not made up my mind that I wouldn't quarrel with a brother! Ah! you may laugh; but you'll repent it one of these days."

The lad clenched his fist as he spoke; but he was met by such a good-tempered smile that he turned away again more angry than ever.

"I can't hit you—I won't hit you!" he gasped.

"I know that," cried Frank. "You can't hit a fellow who is fighting hard to make you sensible. I say, who is this Mr George Selby?"

"Never you mind."

"But I do mind. I want to know."

"Well, a great friend of him over the water."

"How came you to get acquainted with him first?"

"You wait, and you'll know."

"Don't tell me without you like; but he's a dangerous friend, and I'm very glad you've given up seeing him."

"Are you?" said Andrew, with a curious smile. "Why, I've seen him again and again."

"You have!" cried Frank, in astonishment. "When?"

"Oh, at different times. Last evening, for instance, in the Park, while you were with your mother. He came to feed the ducks."

"You won't be happy till you are sent away in disgrace."

"That's very true, Franky; but I don't think I shall feel the disgrace. What would you say, too, if I told you that I have been three times to the city?"

"Impossible!"

"Oh no; these things are not impossible to one who wants to do them."

"Oh, Drew, Drew!" cried Frank.

"There, don't you pity me. You are the one to be pitied."

"I say, hadn't we better talk about something else?"

"Yes. Has Lady Gowan heard from Sir Robert?"

Frank shook his head gloomily.

"What, not written yet?"

"No."

"Then they're stopping his letters!" cried Andrew.

Frank started violently.

"That's it. Just the mean thing that these people would do. I'm sure your father would not have let all this time pass without sending news."

"Oh, they would not do that!" cried Frank. "He is waiting till he is settled down, and then we shall go and join him."

"You will not," said Andrew. "They'll keep you both here, as you'll see. But, I say, hadn't we better talk about something else?"

"If you like," said Frank coldly.

"Well, then, I haven't heard, for I haven't seen Captain Murray or the doctor. What news have you heard of Steinberg?"

"He's getting better, and going home to Hanover as soon as he can bear to travel."

"That's good news," cried Andrew. "I wish he'd take the King and his court with him."

Frank gave him an angry look, then a sharp glance round to see if his companion's words had been heard, and the latter burst out laughing.

"Poor old Frank!" he said merrily. "There, I won't tease you by saying all these disloyal things. But, I say, your acts give the lie to your words. You're as true to us as steel. Come, don't be cross."

This sort of skirmishing went on often enough, for the two lads were always at work trying to undermine each other's principles; but they dropped into the habit of leaving off at the right time, so as to avoid quarrelling, and the days glided on in the regular routine of the court. But a great change had taken place in one who so short a time before was a mere schoolboy, and Lady Gowan could not help remarking it in the rather rare occasions when she had her son alone, and talked to him and made him the repository of her troubles.

"I could not bear all this, Frank," she said one day, "if it were not for the Princess's kindness. Some day we shall have your father forgiven, and he will be back."

"But some day is so long coming, mother. Why don't we go to him?"

"Because he wishes us to stay here, and he will not expose me to the miseries and uncertainties of the life he is leading."

"But we would not mind," cried Frank.

"No, we would not mind; but we must do that which he wishes, my dear."

This was three months after Sir Robert's enforced departure from the court, and when Andrew Forbes's words respecting the communications sent by Sir Robert being stopped had long proved to be unjust.

"Is he still in France?" asked Frank.

"Yes, still there," said Lady Gowan, with a sigh.

"And we can't join him. Don't you think, if you tried again, the Princess might succeed in getting him recalled?"

"I have tried till I dare try no more, for fear of disgusting one who has proved herself my great friend by my importunity. We must be content with knowing that some day your father will be recalled, and then all will be well again."

Lady Gowan did not explain to her son by what means she had letters from her husband, and once when he asked her point-blank she did not speak out, and he did not dare to press the matter.

And still the time went on.

Baron Steinberg was declared by the doctor well enough to take his journey; and one day, to Frank's relief, Andrew met him with the news that the German noble had taken his departure.

"I saw him go," said Andrew; "and, as he came out to the carriage, looking as thin as a herring, I couldn't help smiling, for all the bounce seemed to be gone out of him, and he was walking with a stick."

"Poor wretch!" said Frank.

"Nonsense! Got what he deserved. Some of these foreign officers seem to think that they wear swords and learn to use them for nothing else but to enable them to play the part of bullies and insult better men, force them to a fight, and then kill them. I'm only too glad one of them has had his lesson."

"But it's very horrible," said Frank thoughtfully.

"Of course it is," said Andrew, purposely misunderstanding him. "He'd have killed your father with as little compunction as he would a rat."

"Yes, I'm afraid so," said Frank, with a shiver.

"But he won't be so ready to insult people next time; and next time will be a long way off, I know. But, I say, it's sickening, that it is."

"What is?"

"The fuss made over a fellow like that. Baron indeed! He's only a foreign mercenary; and here is your poor father sent out of the country, while my lord has apartments set aside for him in the Palace, and he's petted and pampered, and now at last he goes off in one of the King's carriages with an escort."

"Oh, well, as far as he is concerned, it does not matter."

"Oh, but it does. I say it's shameful that such preference should be shown to foreigners. If matters go on like this, there'll be no old England left; we shall be all living in a bit of Germany."

"Well, he has gone," said Frank; "so let it rest."

"I can't, I tell you; it makes my blood boil."

"Go and drink some cold water to cool it."

"Bah! You'll never make a good outspoken Englishman, Frank."

"Perhaps not. I shall never make a quarrelsome one," said Frank quietly.

"What! Oh, I like that! Why, you're the most quarrelsome fellow I ever met. I wonder we haven't had our affair in the Park before now. If it hadn't been for my forbearance we should."

Frank stared at his companion in astonishment, for it was quite evident that he was speaking sincerely.

"Come along," said Andrew.

"Where?"

"Out in the Park, where we can breathe the fresh air. I feel stifled in these close rooms, breathing the air of a corrupt court."

"No, thank you," said Frank.

"What? You won't come?"

"No, thank you."

"Why? We're quite free this morning."

"I'm afraid."

"What, that I shall challenge you to fight somewhere among the trees?"

"No; I don't want to go and feed the ducks."

"There, what did I say?" cried Andrew. "You really are about as quarrelsome a fellow as ever lived. No, no; I don't mean that. Come on, Frank, old lad; I do want a breather this morning. I'll do anything you like—run races if you wish."

"Will Mr George Selby be out there on the look-out for you?"

"No," said Andrew, with a gloomy look. "Poor fellow! I wish he would. Honour bright, we shan't meet any one I sympathise with there."

"Very well then, I'll come."

"Hurrah!" cried Andrew eagerly.

"It is stuffy and close in here. I did hope that we should have been down at the old house by this time."

"Yes, that holiday got knocked on the head. Has Lady Gowan heard from your father again?"

"Hush!"

"Oh, very well; I'll whisper. But there are no spies here."

"Mother hasn't heard now for some time, and she's growing very uneasy. She has been getting worse and worse. Oh, what a miserable business it is! I wish we were with him."

"Yes, I wish we were; for if matters go on like this much longer, I shall run away. Here, what do you say, Frank? I'm sick of being a palace poodle. Let's go and seek adventures while we're searching for your father."

"Seek nonsense!" said Frank testily. "Life isn't like what we read in books."

"Oh yes, it is—a deal more than you think. Let's go; it would be glorious."

"Nonsense! Even if I wanted to, how could I? You know what my father said—that I was to stay and protect my mother."

"She'd be safe enough where she is, and she'd glory in her son being so brave as to go in search of his father."

"No, she would think it was cowardly of me to forsake her, whatever she might say; and if I went off in that way, after the kind treatment we have received from the Prince and Princess, it would make my poor mother's position worse than ever."

"I don't believe that the Prince and Princess would mind it a bit. For I will say that for him—he isn't such a bad fellow; and I nearly like her. He isn't so very easy, Frank, I can tell you. He's pretty nearly a prisoner. The King won't let him go and live away, because he's afraid he'd grow popular, and things would be worse than they are. Look how the people are talking, and how daring they are getting."

"Are they?"

"Oh yes. There'll be trouble soon. Come on."

"Mind, I trust to your honour, Drew."

"Of course. Then you won't come off with me?"

"No—I—will not."

Andrew laughed.

"I say, though," he said, as they went past the quarters the baron had occupied, "it was rather comic to see that cripple go. Just before he got into the carriage, he turned to thank the doctor, and he caught sight of me."

"What! did he recognise you?"

"I don't think so; but I was laughing—well no, smiling—and he smiled back, and bowed to me, thinking, I suppose, that I was there to say good-bye to him. He little knew, what I was thinking. Well, good riddance. But the doctor—"

"Eh?" said a sharp voice, and the gentleman named stepped out of one of the dark doorways they were passing in the low colonnade.

"Want to see me, my lads?"

"N-no," stammered Andrew, thoroughly taken aback. "We—were talking about you starting the baron off."

"Oh, I see," said the doctor, smiling. "Of course, I saw you there. Yes, he's gone. Hah! Yes! That was a very peculiar wound, young gentlemen; and I honestly believe that not one in a hundred in my profession could have saved his life. I worked very hard over his case, and he went off, without so much as giving me a little souvenir—a pin or a ring, or a trifle of that kind—seal, for instance."

"What could you expect from one of those Germans, sir?" said Andrew contemptuously.

"Yes, what indeed!" said the doctor, taking snuff, and looking curiously at Frank. "Bad habit this, young man. Don't you follow my example. Dirty habit, eh? But, I say, young fellow," he added, turning to Andrew, "a still tongue maketh a wise head. Wise man wouldn't shout under the Palace windows such sentiments as those, holding the German nation up to contempt. There, a nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse. Here, Gowan, what's the last news?"

"I don't know of any, sir."

"Come, come! I'm a friend of his. You needn't be so close with me. I mean about your father."

"I have none, sir."

"Eh? Don't you know where he is?"

"No, sir," said Frank sadly.

"Humph! Pity!" said the doctor, taking a fresh pinch of snuff. "Because, if you had known, you might have written to tell him that I've cured the baron, and sent him away. Yes, I worked very hard over his case. Many's the night I sat up with him, so that he shouldn't, slip through my fingers. For it would have been so much worse for your father if he had."

"Yes, horrible," said Frank.

"I say, you ought to get him back now. Have a try."

"But what can I do, sir?" cried Frank eagerly.

"Oh, I don't know. No use to ask me, boy. Politics are not in my way. If you like to come to me with a broken bone, or a cut, or a hole in you anywhere, I'm your man, and I'll try and set you right. Or if you want a dose of good strong physic, I'll mix you up something that will make you smack your lips and shout for sugar. But that other sort of thing is quite out of my way. What do you say to our all signing a round robin, and sending it into the King? for we all want Gowan back."

"Yes, sir—capital!" cried Frank; but Andrew smiled contemptuously.

"Or look here. You're a boy—smart lad too, with plenty of brains," continued the doctor, who had noticed Andrew's sneer; "sensible sort of boy—not a dandy, gilded vane, like Forbes here. Ah! don't you look at me like that, sir, or next time you're sick I'll give you such a dose as shall make you smile the other way."

"Come along, Frank," said the lad angrily. "You wait a minute. I haven't done with him yet. Look here, boy," he continued, clapping Frank on the shoulder; "there's nothing a man and a father likes better than a good, natural, straightforward, manly sort of boy. I don't mean a fellow who spends half his time scenting himself, brushing his hair to make it curl, and looking at himself in the glass.—Here, hallo! what's the matter with you, Forbes? I didn't say you did. Pavement warm? Cat on hot bricks is nothing to you."

Andrew tightened his lips, and the doctor went on.

"Look here, Gowan; I tell you what I'd do if I were you. I should just wait for my chance—you'll get plenty—and then I should go right in front of the King, dump myself down on one knee, and when he asks you what you want, tell him bluntly, like a manly boy should, to forgive your father, who is as brave an officer as ever cried 'Forward!' to a company of soldiers."

"Bah!" ejaculated Andrew.

"Bo!" cried the doctor. "Good-looking gander! What do you know about it?—You ask him. As the offended king, he may feel ready to say no; but as the man and father, he'll very likely be ready to say yes."

"Oh, I never thought of that!" cried Frank excitedly.

"Then think about it now, my boy. That's my prescription for a very sore case. You do it and win; and if your mother doesn't think she's got the best son in the world, I'm a Dutchman, and we've got plenty without."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, doctor!" cried Frank.

"Wish you luck, boy. Do that, and you may be as proud as a peacock afterward—proud as Andrew Forbes here, and that's saying a deal."

The doctor nodded to them both, took a fresh pinch of snuff loudly, and went off.

"Bah!" growled Andrew, as he went off at a great rate toward the Park. "Ridiculous! How can an English gentleman advise such a degrading course. Go down on your knees to that Dutchman, and beg!"

"I'd go down on my face to him, Drew," cried Frank excitedly.

"You won't follow out his advice?"

"I will, and when everybody is there," cried Frank. "He's right, and I believe that the King will."

Andrew was silent for some minutes, and they walked on, inadvertently going down by the water-side, and directing their steps to the clump of trees where the duel had taken place.

They passed over the ground in silence, each picturing the scene, and then went slowly on, so as to pass round the end of the canal—for such it was in those days—and return by the other side.

Andrew was the first to break the silence, Frank being plunged in deep thought over the doctor's advice.

"You ought to be very proud of your father, Frank," he said.

"I am," was the laconic reply.

"My father, when I told him, said he behaved most gallantly, but that he ought to have killed his man."

"Your father!" cried Frank, staring. "Why, when did you see your father?"

"Can't people write?" said Andrew hastily; and he looked slightly confused. "I did learn how to read and write," he added, with a forced laugh.

Frank was silent for a few moments.

"I say," he said at last, "doesn't it seem strange that we should be both like this—each with his father obliged to keep abroad?"

"Very," said Andrew drily, and he glanced sidewise at his companion; but Frank was thinking with his brow all in lines, till they came round opposite to the house overlooking the Park, where he stopped to gaze up at the windows.

"Poor old place looks dismal," said Andrew, "with its shutters to and blinds drawn-down. I wonder your mother doesn't let it."

"What, our house?" cried Frank, flushing. "Oh, they wouldn't do that."

"Seems a pity for such a nice place to be empty. But there is some one in it of course?"

"Only our old housekeeper and a maid. Come along; it makes me feel miserable to look at the place."

"But doesn't your mother go there now?"

"No; she has not been since—since—"

He did not finish his sentence, for a curious sensation of huskiness affected his throat, and he felt determined now to follow out the doctor's suggestion, so that there might be some one to take interest in the old town house again.

He took a step or two, and then waited, for Andrew appeared to be attracted more than repelled by the gloomy aspect of the blank-looking place, and then, all at once, Frank's heart seemed to stand still, and a stifling sense of suffocation to affect him, so that it was some moments before he could speak, and then it was in a tone of voice that startled his companion.

"Come away!" cried Frank angrily, and with singular haste. "Don't stop there staring at the windows; it looks so absurd."

Andrew made no reply then, but walked sharply off with his companion till they were some hundred yards away.

"Don't be cross with me, Franky," he said gently. "It isn't my fault, and you ought to know. I feel it as much as you do. I always liked Sir Robert, and you know how much I care for Lady Gowan."

Frank turned to him warmly.

"Yes, I know you do," he said, with a wild and wistful look in his eyes; and his lips parted as if he were eager to say something particular to his companion.

"There, don't take on about it. Things seem all out of joint with us all; but they'll come right some day. And don't you take any notice of me. I feel sometimes as if I'd turned sour, and as if everything was wrong, and I was curdled. I can't help it. Perhaps the doctor's right. You do as he said, and ask the King boldly. For some things I should like to see Sir Robert back."

Frank made a quick gesture as if to speak out, but Andrew checked him with a laugh.

"Oh, I mean it," he said. "I'd rather he joined us."

Frank gave an indignant start.

"There, there! Don't be cross. I won't say any more. You ask the King. He's only a man, if he is a king; and if he doesn't grant your petition, I shall hate him ten times as much as I do now. Why, what a fellow you are! You're all of a tremble, and your face is quite white."

"Is it?" said Frank, with a strange little gasp.

"Yes; either thinking about that petition, or the sight of your poor, dismal old house, or both of them, have regularly upset you. Come along, and don't think about them. I must say this, though, for I want to be honest: if I were placed as you are, with a father who had stood so high in George's service, I think perhaps I should be ready to do what the doctor said for the sake of my mother if she was alive."

Again Frank gave his companion that wistful look, and his lips parted, but no words came; and they went on down by the water-side, without noticing that a shabby-looking man was slouching along behind them, throwing himself down upon the grass, as if idling away the time. And all the while that the two lads were in the Park he kept them in sight, sometimes close at hand, sometimes distant, but always ready to follow them when they went on.

Frank noticed it at last, as they were standing by the water's edge, and whispered his suspicions that they were being watched.

"Who by? That ragged-looking fellow yonder?"

"Yes; don't take any notice."

"No, I'm not going to," said Andrew, stooping to pick up a stone and send it flying over the water. "Spy, perhaps. Well, we're not feeding the ducks to-day. He's a spy for a crown. Well, let him spy. The place is full of them. I've a good mind to lead him a good round, and disappoint him. No, I will not; it might lead to our being arrested for doing nothing, and what would be the good of doing that?"

The man did his work well, for he kept them in sight without seeming to be looking at them once, till they went back to the Palace, where they parted for a time, and Andrew said to himself:

"I wish I had not talked as I did about his father and mother. Poor old fellow; how he was upset!"



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

IT WAS NOT FANCY.

Andrew Forbes would have felt more compunction had he seen Frank when he was alone; for the lad hurried to his room, where he stood trembling with agitation and thinking of what he should do.

His first thought was to go to his mother; but he knew that he could not see her at that hour, and even if it had been possible, he shrank from telling her, partly from dread of the state of agitation in which his news would plunge her, partly from the thought that he might have been mistaken—that fancy had had a great deal to do with it.

"But I'll put that to the test as soon as it's dark, if I can get away unseen," he said to himself; and then he walked up and down his room, wondering whether Andrew had seen anything—coming to the conclusion at last that if he had he would have spoken out at once.

Then came another vein of thought to trouble him, and he was mentally tossed about as to whether he ought not to have confided in his companion. Then again he tortured himself as to whether he ought not to go at once to Captain Murray and confide in him. Question after question arose till his head felt dizzy, and he was so confused that he was afraid to go and join his companion at the evening meal.

But at last his common sense told him that all this worry of thought was due to the cowardly desire to get help, when, under the circumstances, he knew that he ought to have sufficient manliness to act and prove whether what he had seen was fancy or the reality.

If it proved to be real—

He trembled at the thought; but making a brave effort, he well bathed his aching temples with cold water, and went down to the evening meal, made a show of eating, and then excused himself on the plea of a very bad headache, got up, and was leaving the room, when, to his horror, Andrew joined him.

"Here," he said, "I don't like to see you in this way. I helped to give you this headache. Let's go and have a walk up and down the courtyard."

"No, don't you come," said Frank, so earnestly that Andrew gave way and drew back.

"Very well," he said. "Go and lie down for a bit; you'll be better then."

Frank made as if to go to his room, but took his hat and cloak and slipped out, forcing himself to cross the courtyard calmly and walk carelessly by the sentries, turning off directly after in the opposite direction to that in which he wished to go, and without seeming to pay any attention kept his eyes travelling in all directions in search of the man they had seen in the afternoon.

But he was nowhere visible, and to make more sure the lad took off his hat to fan himself, the evening being warm, and in so doing purposely dropped his glove, so that in stooping to recover it he could give a good look to the rear to see whether he was followed.

But there was no one suspicious-looking in sight, and, taking advantage of the darkness of the soft, warm evening, he began to walk more sharply, going through the Park till he was opposite to the house, and after glancing to right and left, to make sure that he was not observed, he began to examine it carefully. Those to right and left had several windows illumined, but his old London home was all in complete darkness, though he felt that if he went round to the street front he would see a light in the housekeeper's room.

Dark, everywhere dark; no gleam showing anywhere, not even at the window upon which his eyes had last rested when he was there that afternoon.

"Fancy," he thought; and he breathed more freely. "Yes, it must have been fancy."

"No, it was not fancy!" and his heart began to throb violently, his breath came short, and he looked wildly to right and left, and then walked across the road to stand beneath the trees to make sure that no one was watching from there.

But he was quite alone as far as he could see, and he ran lightly back to the railings, wild with excitement now, and stood gazing across the little garden at that back window which was heavily curtained; but right up in the left-hand corner there was a faint glow, which he soon proved to himself could not be a reflection on the glass from outside.

Then he was right; and, panting now as if he had been running heavily, he went round into the street, reached the front of the house, where, as he had expected, he could see low down the faintly illumined blind of the housekeeper's room, and then rang gently.

He waited, and there was no response; and he rang again, but the time passed again; minutes—more probably moments—elapsed before he heard a window opened softly overhead.

"What is it?" said a woman's voice.

"Come down and open the door, Berry," said the boy quickly.

"You, Master Frank?"

"Yes; make haste."

"Is—is any one with you?" said the woman in a whisper, "because I don't like opening the door after dark."

"No, I'm quite alone. Make haste."

The woman did not stop to close the window, and the next minute Frank heard the bolts drawn softly back, the key turned, and as the door was being opened he stepped forward, but only to stop short on the step, for the housekeeper had not removed the chain.

"What is it, my dear?" she said.

She had not brought a light, and Frank could dimly see her face at the narrow opening.

"What is it?" cried Frank impatiently. "Take down the chain, and let me in. Don't keep me standing here."

"But her ladyship gave me strict orders, my dear, that I wasn't to admit any one after dark, for there are so many wicked people about."

"Did my father tell you not to admit me?" whispered Frank, with his face close to the narrow slit.

"What! before he went abroad, my dear?" faltered the woman.

"No, no—yesterday, to-day—whenever he came back."

"Sir Robert, my dear?" whispered the woman, with her voice trembling.

"Don't be so stupid. I must—I will see him. I saw his face at the window this afternoon."

"Oh, my dear, my dear!" stammered the woman.

"There, take down the chain, Berry."

"I—I don't think I ought, my dear. Stop a minute, and I'll go and ask him."

"No, no. Let me go up at once. You'll be quite right in letting me."

The woman uttered a gasp, closed the door, and softly unhooked the chain, after which she opened the door just sufficiently for the boy to pass in, and closed and fastened it again.

The hall was dark as could be, save for a faint gleam from the fanlight; but Frank could have gone blindfold, and dashing over the marble floor to the foot of the staircase, he bounded up two steps at a time, reached the door of the back room, beneath which shone a line of light, and turned the handle sharply. As he did so, there was a dull sound within, and the light was extinguished.

"Open the door, father," whispered the boy, with his lips to the keyhole. "It is I—Frank."

There was the dull tremor of a heavy step crossing the floor, the door was unlocked, and the boy sprang forward in the darkness, the door was closed and relocked, and he was clasped in a pair of strong arms.

"Oh, dad, dad, dad!" cried the lad, in a panting whisper.

"My own boy! Then you saw me this afternoon?"

"Yes, just a faint glimpse of you. Oh, father, father, it wasn't safe for you to come back!"

"No, not very, my boy; but I couldn't stop away any longer. How is the dear one?"

"Quite well—only she looks thin and pale, father. She's fretting so because you are away."

"Hah!" ejaculated Sir Robert, in a long-drawn sigh. "I felt that she must be, and that helped to draw me back. Heaven bless her!—Frank lad, as you have found me out—But stop, did you tell her you had seen me?"

"I haven't seen her since, father; and if I had, I shouldn't have dared. What would she think?"

"Bullets and bayonets, or worse, my boy. Quite right; spoken like the brave, thoughtful lad you are growing. But it's very hard, Frank. Don't you think you could manage to bring her over here—say this time to-morrow evening?"

"Yes, father, easily," said Frank.

"My boy. Oh, if you knew how I long to see her again!"

"Yes, father," said Frank bitterly, "I could bring her, but for what?— to see you arrested for coming back. It would be madness. There are spies everywhere. I had to be so careful to get round here without being followed."

Sir Robert groaned as he stood there in the darkness, holding his son by his arms in a firm grip.

"I can't help it, father. I must tell you the truth," cried the boy passionately.

"Yes, you are quite right, boy, and I'm weak and foolish to have proposed such a thing. But it's hard, my lad—very, very hard."

"Don't I know, father?"

"Yes, yes, boy. But tell me, does she talk about me to you much?"

"She talks of nothing else, father. But listen; I'm going to petition the King myself. I'm going to kneel to him, and beg him to give you leave to return."

"You are, my boy?"

"Yes, father," cried Frank excitedly, "directly I get a chance."

"No, Frank, don't do that," said Sir Robert, rather sternly.

"You don't wish me to, father?" Sir Robert drew a deep breath, and then hoarsely: "No. I desire that you do not. Your mother has through the Princess prayed and prayed in vain. No, Frank, you shall not do that."

"Very well, father," said the boy drearily. "Hist! Some one!" whispered Sir Robert; and Frank turned sharply to see light gleaming beneath the door, and his father stepped away from him, and something on the table grated softly as it was taken up. Then a soft voice said:

"Wouldn't you like a light, Sir Robert? I saw yours was out."

"Yes," came from close to where Frank stood with his hands turning wet in the darkness, and then he felt his father brush by him, the door was unlocked, and the housekeeper's white face was seen lit up by the candle she carried.

"Thank you, Berry," said Sir Robert; and he took the candle and relocked the door after the woman.

The light dazzled Frank for a few minutes, and then he was gazing wonderingly in his father's face, to see that it was thin and careworn, while the lines in his forehead were deepened.

His sword and pistols lay upon the table close to some sheets of paper, the inkstand showing that he had been writing when he was interrupted by his visitor; and the boy noticed, too, that there was a heavy cloak over a chair back, and the curtains were very closely drawn.

"Don't look so smart as in the old days, Frank, eh?" said Sir Robert, with a sad smile.

"You look like my father," said the boy firmly.

"And you like my son," cried Sir Robert, patting the boy's head.

"Then you really would not like me to venture to ask the King, father?"

Sir Robert pointed to a chair close by his own, and they sat down, the father still retaining his boy's hand.

"No, Frank," he said gravely. "I should not now. It is too late."

"But it would mean bringing you back, father."

"I am not a clever man, Frank lad," said Sir Robert. "I am fair as a soldier, and I know my duties pretty well; but when we get into the maze of politics and social matters, I am afraid that I am very stupid. Here, however, I seem to see in a dim sort of way that such a thing as you propose would be only weak and romantic. It sounds very nice, but it would only be raising your hopes and—Stop. Does your mother know that you think of doing this?"

"Oh no, father; the doctor only just suggested it—now that Steinberg has recovered."

"Very good of the doctor, and I am deeply in his debt for saving that wretched German baron's life. Not pleasant to have known that you had killed a man in a quarrel, Frank."

"Horrible, father!" said the boy emphatically.

"Yes, horrible, lad. But the doctor is a better man at wounds than he is at giving counsel. No, Frank, under any circumstances it would not have done. King George is too hard and matter-of-fact a man of the world to be stirred by my boy's appeal. His German folk would look upon it as weakness, and would be offended. He cannot afford to offend the German people, for he has no real English friends, and between the two stools he'd be afraid of coming to the ground. No, you shall not humble yourself to do this; and," he said firmly, "it is too late."

There was something so commanding in the way these last words were said that Frank drew a deep sigh of regret, and the hopeful vision faded away behind the cloud his father drew over it. But the minutes were precious, and he could not afford time to regret the dashing of his hopes, when he had him for whose benefit they were designed sitting there holding his hand.

"Then you are going to stay here now, father?" he said.

"Here? No, Frank. It is only a temporary hiding-place. I shall be off to-morrow."

"Where to, father?"

"Humph! Don't know for certain, my boy. As you say, the place swarms with spies, and though I have had to give up my gay uniform, plenty of people know my face, and I don't even feel now that they are not hunting me down."

"But if they did, what would happen?"

"A fight, Frank—don't tell your mother this; she suffers enough. I can't afford to be captured, and—you know what they do with the poor wretches they take?"

Frank shivered, and glanced at his father's sword and pistols.

"Loaded, father?" he said in a whisper. "Yes, boy."

"And is your sword sharp?"

"As sharp as the cutler could make it. And I know how to use it, Frank; but a man who carries a sword—if he is a man—is like a bee with its sting; he will not use it save at the last extremity. You must remember that with yours."

"Yes, father. But do think again; we are both so unhappy there at the court."

"What, in the midst of luxury and show!" said Sir Robert banteringly.

"Pah! What is the use of all that when we know that you are driven away and dare not show your face? Oh, do think again. Can't you let us come and join you?"

"It is impossible, my boy. Don't press me. I have too many troubles as it is. Look here, Frank; you are growing fast into a man, and you must try to help me as you did just now when I turned weak and foolish. The intense longing to see your mother was too much for me, but I have mastered it. You two are safe and well-cared for at the Palace, where the Princess is your mother's friend. I am nobody now, and what I do will not count as regards your mother and you. So try and be content, and stay."

"But you, father? Surely the King will forgive you soon."

"Never, boy," said Sir Robert sternly. "So be careful. A hint dropped of my whereabouts would give your mother intense suffering and dread for my life; so she must not know."

"But your friends, father? Captain Murray—the doctor. Every one likes you."

"They must not know, so be cautious. I feel quite a young man, Frank, and don't want to have my life shortened, nor my body neither," he added, with a grim smile.

"Oh, father!" cried the boy, with a shudder.

"We must look the worst in the face, Frank. By my return here my life is forfeit, and the King's people would be justified in shooting me down."

"Oh, but, father, this is horrible."

"Not to a soldier, Frank," said Sir Robert, smiling. "Soldiers get used to being shot at, and they don't mind so much, because they know how hard it is for any one to hit a mark. There, you are warned now, so let's talk of pleasanter things."

"Yes, of course, father; but I may come and see you again often?"

"If you wish to see me taken."

Frank shuddered again.

"No. This must be your only visit. I am glad you have come; but I can't afford to indulge in good things now."

"You are going to stay in England, father?" cried Frank anxiously.

"I don't know."

"What are you going to do?"

"That I cannot tell either, my boy; and if I did know, for your mother's and your peace of mind I would not tell you."

"That isn't trusting me, father," said Frank gloomily.

"And that is not trusting me, Frank—to know what is best."

"Oh, but I do trust you, father. Now tell me," cried the boy eagerly, "what shall I do to help you?"

"Stay where you are patiently, and watch over and help your mother."

"Is that all, father?" said the boy, in a disappointed tone of voice.

"All? Is it not enough to be trusted to keep my secret, the knowledge which means your father's life, boy, and to have the guardianship of the truest and best woman who ever lived—your mother? And you ask 'Is that all?'"

"Don't be angry with me, father. I am very young and stupid. I will be as contented as I can; only it is so hard to know that you are in danger, and to be doing nothing to help you."

"You will be doing a great deal to help me, for you will be giving me rest of mind—and I want it badly enough. There, now you had better go. You may be asked for, and you can't make the excuse that you have been to see your father."

"No," sighed Frank. "But I shall see you again soon?"

"Perhaps. I may come here sometimes. An extra hole is useful to a hunted animal, Frank; but don't question me, my boy, even if I seem mysterious. As your father, I can tell you nothing."

Frank sighed and clung to his father's arm.

"There, I'll run one risk. You may come here sometimes. It will not look suspicious for you to visit your mother's empty house."

"My father's empty house," said the boy.

"No, your mother's. Your father is an exile, an outcast, without any rights in England. I am dead in the eyes of the law, Frank, and when you come of age you can reign in my stead. Why, boy, if you liked to make a stand for it, they would, I dare say, tell you that you are now Sir Frank Gowan."

He looked so merrily in his son's face, that the boy joined in his mirth.

"You must go now, my boy. I have work that will take me all night. But if you do come here in the hope of seeing me—"

"I shall not come," said the boy firmly.

"Why?"

"Because, to please myself, I will not do anything to make your position dangerous."

"Well said, Frank; but come now and then for my pleasure, and if I am not here, do this."

He rose and walked to a portrait framed in the wainscotting over a side table, pointed to one little oval nut in the carving, twisted it slightly, and the picture swung forward, showing a shallow closet behind fitted with shelves, and in which were swords and pistols, with flasks of powder and pouches of ball.

"You can look in there; and if I have been, you will find a letter, written for you and your mother, by a Mr Cross to apparently nobody. I am Mr Cross, Frank. There. Try if you can open it."

He closed the picture door, and the boy tried, and opened and shut the panel easily, noting at the same time how ingeniously the carving tallied with portions on the other side of the framing.

"Now, then, sharp and short like a soldier, Frank. Heaven bless and protect you and your mother, who must not know I have been here. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye, father," cried the boy in a choking voice as he clung to the strong, firm man, who pressed him to his breast, and then snatched himself away, and caught up sword and pistol from the table.

For there was a sharp, impatient knocking on the panel of the door, and Sir Robert whispered:

"We have stayed too long!"



CHAPTER TWENTY.

LADY GOWAN AT BAY.

Obeying the impulse of the moment, Frank snatched the remaining pistol from the table, and drew his sword, seeing his father nod approval, as he stretched out his hand to extinguish the light; but before he had dashed it out, the knocking was repeated, and they heard a well-known voice.

"Robert—Robert! Open quickly, dearest. It is I."

"Ah!" cried Frank, with his heart giving a tremendous bound, while Sir Robert unlocked and flung open the door, and clasped his wife to his breast.

Lady Gowan was half swooning and speechless from excitement; but, making a brave effort, she recovered herself, and panted out as she struggled to free herself from her husband's firm arms:

"Quick! Not a moment to lose. Escape for your life."

"What! They know?"

"Yes. The Princess came to my room to warn me. The spies have traced you here; information has been given at the Palace. The King has been told, and the Princess bade me try to save your life before the guard came to arrest you."

"Hah! Sharp work for us, Frank lad. Well, I have seen and kissed you, darling. Now I must try and save your husband's life."

As he spoke he buckled on his sword belt, thrust his pistols in his pockets, Frank handing him the second, and took up his hat and the heavy cloak from where they lay.

"Good-bye, darling. Frank knows how I can get a letter to you through him."

"Yes, yes; but you are killing me, Robert; for pity's sake, fly!"

"My own! Yes," he whispered, as he folded Lady Gowan in his arms again.

"Ah!" cried Frank wildly, for a heavy series of blows from the front-door knocker resounded through the house.

"Too late!" cried Lady Gowan wildly, as Frank dashed out of the door to the front room to peer through the window.

He was back in a few moments, to find his mother clinging to his father, ghastly with the horrible dread which had attacked her.

"Soldiers—a dozen at least in front!" panted Frank.

There was another loud knocking at the street door.

"Quick, father, out by that window. You can drop from the balcony."

"Yes, my boy, easily."

"Then get over the railing and cross the Park. Go straight through by the Palace. No one would think you likely to take that way."

"Good advice, boy. Out with the candle. That's right."

Lady Gowan blew out the light, and Frank quickly drew the heavy curtain aside, and uttered a groan, for the garden was full of armed men, dimly seen in the gloom amid the shrubs.

"Trapped, Frank," said Sir Robert quietly, the danger having made the soldier cool.

Lady Gowan uttered a faint, despairing cry.

"Hush, dear!" said Sir Robert firmly. "Be a woman—my wife. I may escape yet. See Berry, and keep her from opening the door, no matter what they say or do."

"Yes, yes," said Lady Gowan excitedly; "but, Robert, what will you do?"

"Escape, if you help me. Now be calm. Let them break in, and when they do face them. You were alarmed, and did not know what evil was abroad. You need no excuse for refusing to have your house—and it is your house—opened to a riotous party of drunken soldiers for aught you know. Now go down. Do anything you can to gain time for me. Heaven bless you, darling, till we meet again!"

Lady Gowan's answer was to hurry out on the staircase, where the place was echoing to the resounding knocks and orders to open in the King's name. She was just in time to seize the old housekeeper by the arm, while a hysterical crying came from the maid below.

"Oh, my lady, my lady! They're going to break in. I was about to unfasten the door."

"Silence! Touch it at your peril," cried Lady Gowan imperatively. "Let them break in if they dare. Go below to that foolish, sobbing girl, and stay there keeping her quiet."

"But they'll break down the door, my lady."

"Let them," said Lady Gowan coolly.

But she started as one of the narrow side windows was shivered by the butt of a musket, and the fragments of glass fell inside with a tinkling sound.

"That's right; now reach in and shoot back the bolts."

A hand and arm were thrust in through the hammered iron scroll work which covered the glass in the place of iron bars across the narrow window for protection, rendering it impossible for a man to creep past.

But the arm came freely right up to its owner's shoulder, and in the gloom could be seen feeling about, the hand strained here and there to reach bolt, bar, or lock. Vainly enough, for they were far out of reach; and at last, after several more angry orders, it was withdrawn.

"Try the other window!" cried the voice of the officer in command. "Quick, men; don't shilly-shally. Use your butts."

Crash, crash and tinkle, tinkle went the broken glass as it fell upon the marble floor beyond the mat; but the hole made was not in the best place, and there was another crash as the butt of a musket was driven through higher up, and simultaneously there was the loud report of the piece used as a battering-ram.

"What are you doing?" roared the officer.

"Went off, sir."

"Went off, idiot! You must have touched the trigger."

"No, sir. Both hands hold of the barrel."

"Silence, sir! How dare you!" roared the officer—"how dare you! Any one hurt, sergeant?"

"No, sir; bullet went too high; but it's gone through a window opposite."