"Senseless brawl" made the boy wince again.

"It would have been very horrible, mother," he said, in a low voice.

"It would have killed me. Why was it? What was the cause?"

"Oh, it was an affair of honour, mother," said Frank evasively.

"An affair of honour!" cried Lady Gowan scornfully; "a boy like you daring to speak to me like that! Honour, sir! Where is the honour? It comes of boys like you two, little better than children, being allowed to carry weapons. Do you not know that it is an honour to a gentleman to wear a sword, because it is supposed that he would be the last to draw it, save in some terrible emergency for his defence or to preserve another's life, and not at the first hasty word spoken? Had you no consideration for me? Could you not see how painful my position is at the court, that you must give me this fresh trouble to bear?"

"Yes, mother; you know how I think of you. I couldn't help it."

"Shame! Could not help it! Is this the result of your education—you, growing toward manhood—my son to tell me this unblushingly, to give me this pitiful excuse—you could not help it? Why was it, sir?"

"Well, mother, we quarrelled. Drew is so hot-tempered and passionate."

"And you are perfectly innocent, and free from all such attributes, I suppose, sir," cried Lady Gowan sarcastically.

"Oh no, I'm not, mother," said the lad bluntly, as he felt he would give anything to get away. "I've got a nasty, passionate temper; but I'm all right if it isn't roused and Drew will keep on till he rouses it."

"Pitiful! Worse and worse!" cried Lady Gowan. "All this arose, I suppose, out of some contemptible piece of banter or teasing. He said something to you, then, that you did not like?"

"Yes," said Frank eagerly, "that was it."

"And pray what did he say?"

"Say—oh—er—he said—oh, it was nothing much."

"Speak out—the truth, sir," cried Lady Gowan, fixing her eyes upon her son's.

"Oh, he said—something I did not like, mother."

"What was it, sir? I insist upon knowing."

"Oh, it was nothing much."

"Let me be the judge of that, sir. I, as your mother, would be only too glad to find that you had some little excuse for such conduct."

"And then," continued Frank hurriedly, "I got put out, and—and I called him a liar."

"What was it he said?"

"And then he struck me over the face with his glove, mother, and I couldn't stand that, and I hit out, and sent him staggering against the wall."

"Why?—what for?" insisted Lady Gowan.

"And in a moment he whipped out his sword and attacked me, and of course I had to draw, or he would have run me through."

"Is that true, sir—Andrew Forbes drew on you first?"

"Of course it's true, mother," said the lad proudly. "Did I ever tell you a lie?"

"Never, my boy," said Lady Gowan firmly. "It has been my proud boast to myself that I could trust my son in everything."

"Then why did you ask me in that doubting way if it was true?"

"Because my son is prevaricating with me, and speaking in a strange, evasive way. He never spoke to me like that before. Do you think me blind, Frank? Do you think that I, upon whom your tiny eyes first opened—your mother, who has watched you with all a mother's love from your birth, cannot read every change in your countenance? Do you think I cannot see that you are fighting hard to keep something back?—you, whom I have always been so proud to think were as frank by nature as you are by name? Come, be honest with me. You are hiding something from me?"

"Yes, mother," cried the lad, throwing back his head and speaking defiantly now, "I am."

"Then tell me what it is at once. I am your mother, from whom nothing should be hid. If the matter is one for which you feel shame, if it is some wrong-doing, the more reason that you should come to me, my boy, and confide in me, that I may take you once again to my heart, and kneel with you, that we may together pray for forgiveness and the strength to be given to save you from such another sin."

"Mother," cried the boy passionately, "I have not sinned in this!"

"Ah!—Then what is it?"

"I cannot tell you."

"Frank, if ever there was a time when mother and son should be firmly tied in mutual confidence, it is now. I have no one to cling to but you, and you hold me at a distance like this."

"Yes, yes; but I cannot tell you."

"You think so, my boy; but don't keep it from me."

"Mother," cried Frank wildly, "I must!"

"You shall not, my boy. I will know."

"I cannot tell you."

He held out his hands to her imploringly, but she drew back from him, and her eyes seemed to draw the truth he strove so hard to keep hidden from his unwilling lips.

"There, then!" he cried passionately; "I bore it as long as I could: because he insulted my father—it was to defend his honour that I struck him, and we fought."

"You drew to defend your father's honour," said Lady Gowan hoarsely; and her face looked drawn and her lips white.

"Yes, that was it. Is it so childish of me to say that I could not help that?"

"No," said Lady Gowan, in a painful whisper. "How did he insult your father? What did he say?"

"Must I tell you?"

"Yes."

Frank drew a long, deep, sobbing breath, and his voice sounded broken and strange, as he said in a low, passionate voice:

"He dared to insult my father—he said he was false to the King—that he had broken his oath as a soldier—that he was a miserable rebel and Jacobite, and had gone over to the Pretender's side."

"Oh!" ejaculated Lady Gowan, shrinking back into the corner of the couch, and covering her face with her hands.

"Mother, forgive me!" cried the lad, throwing himself upon his knees, and trying to draw her hands from her face. "I could not speak. It seemed so horrible to have to tell you such a cruel slander as that. I could not help it. I should have struck at anybody who said it, even if it had been the Prince himself."

Lady Gowan let her son draw her hands from her white, drawn face, and sat back gazing wildly in his eyes.

"Oh, mother!" he cried piteously, "can you think this a sin? Don't look at me like that."

She uttered a passionate cry, clasped him to her breast, and let her face sink upon his shoulder, sobbing painfully the while.

"I knew what pain it would give you, dear," he whispered, with his lips to her ear; "but you made me tell you. I was obliged to fight him. Father would have been ashamed of me, and called me a miserable coward, if I had not stood up for him as I did."

"Then—then—he said that of your father?" faltered Lady Gowan, with her convulsed face still hidden.

"Yes."

"And you denied it, Frank."

"Of course," cried the lad proudly; "and then we fought, and I did not know what was happening till the Prince came and struck down our swords."

Lady Gowan raised her piteous-looking face, pressed her son back from her, and rose from the couch.

"Go now, my boy," she said, in a low, agonised voice.

"Back to prison?" he said. "But tell me first that you are not so angry with me. I can't feel that I was so wrong."

"No, no, my boy—no, I cannot blame you," sighed Lady Gowan.

"And you forgive me, mother?"

"Forgive you? Oh, my own, true, brave lad, it is not your fault, but that of these terrible times. Go now, I can bear no more."

"Say that once again," whispered Frank, clinging to her.

"I cannot speak, my darling. I am suffering more than I can tell you. There, leave me, dearest. I want to be alone, to think and pray for help in this terrible time of affliction. Frank, I am nearly broken-hearted."

"And I have been the cause," he said sadly.

"You? Oh no, no, my own, brave, true boy. I never felt prouder of you than I do now. Go back. I must think. Then I will see the Princess. The Prince is not so very angry with you, and he will forgive you when he knows the truth."

"And you, mother?"

"I?" cried the poor woman passionately. "Heaven help me! I do not feel that I have anything to forgive."

Lady Gowan embraced her son once more, and stood looking after him as he descended the stairs, while Frank walked over to his prison with head erect and a flush of pride in his cheeks.

"There," he muttered, as he passed the sentry, "let them say or do what they like; I don't care now."



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE BREACH WIDENS.

Andrew started from his seat as Frank entered the room and the door was closed and locked behind him; but, seeing who it was, he sat down again with his face averted.

"Shall I tell him?" thought Frank. "No; it would be like triumphing over him to show him I have found out that he has been trying to cheat me into going off."

The boy felt so satisfied and at ease that he was more and more unwilling to hurt his fellow-prisoner's feelings, and after a while he spoke.

"I suppose they'll give us something to eat," he said.

Andrew looked up at him in astonishment, but only to frown the next moment and turn his head away again.

Frank went to the window and stood looking out, one corner commanding a view of the Park; and after watching the people come and go for some time, he suddenly turned to his companion:

"Here are the Horse Guards coming, Drew. Want to see them?"

"No. Will you have the goodness to leave me in peace?"

"No," said Frank quietly. "How can I? We're shut up together here perhaps for ever so long, and we can't keep up that miserable quarrel now. Hadn't we better shake hands?"

"What do you suppose I'm made of?" said Andrew fiercely.

"Same stuff as I am," replied Frank almost as sharply; "and as I've shown myself ready to forgive and forget what has happened, you ought to do the same."

But it was of no use. Try how he would to draw Andrew into conversation, the latter refused to speak; and at last the boy gave up in despair, and began to look about the captain's room for something out of which he could drag some amusement. This last he had to extract from one of the books on a shelf; but it proved dry and uninteresting, though it is doubtful whether one of the most cheery nature would have held his attention long. For he had so much to think about that his mind refused to grasp the meaning of the different sentences, and one minute he was wondering whether his father would venture to the house, the next he was going over the scene of the quarrel in the antechamber. Then he thought sadly about his interview with his mother, but only to feel elated and happy, though it was mingled with sorrow at having given her so much pain.

A little resentment began to spring up, too, against Andrew, as the true cause of it all, but it did not last; he felt far too much at rest for that, and the anger gave way to pity for the high-spirited, excitable lad seated there in the deepest dejection, and he began to wish now that he had not called him a liar and struck him.

"I shall go melancholy mad," muttered Frank at last, "if they keep us shut up long, and Drew goes on like this. But I wonder whether there will really be a rising against the King?"

Curiosity made him try to be communicative, and he turned to his silent companion.

"Think there really will be any fighting?" he said.

Andrew turned to him sharply.

"Why do you ask?" he said.

"Simple reason: because I want to know."

"You have some other reason."

"Because I want to send word to the Prince that you are a rebel, and intend to go and join the Pretender's followers, of course," said Frank sarcastically. "Don't be so spiteful, Drew. We can't live here like this. Why don't you let bygones be bygones?"

"What interest can it be to you?" said Andrew, ignoring the latter part of his fellow-prisoner's remark.

"Do you suppose such a rising can take place without its being of interest to every one? There, we won't talk about it unless you like. Look here, I can't sit still doing nothing; it gives me pins and needles in my hands and feet. I'll ring and ask Captain Murray to let us have a draught board if you'll play."

"Pish!" cried Andrew contemptuously; and Frank sighed and gave up again, to take refuge in staring out of the window for some time.

Then his tongue refused to be quiet, and he cried to his silent companion:

"There is something going on for certain. I've counted twelve officers go by since I've been standing here."

There was no heed paid to his remark, and at last the boy drew a breath full of relief, for he heard steps on the stairs, the sentry's piece rattled, and then the key turned in the lock, and Captain Murray entered, looking very stern.

"Frank Gowan," he said, "you give me your parole d'honneur that you will not do anything foolish in the way of attempting to escape?"

"Oh yes, of course, sir," said the boy. "I don't want to escape."

"That's right. And you, Andrew Forbes?"

"No; I shall make no promises," was the reply.

"Don't be foolish, my lad. You ought to have cooled down by this time. Give me your word: it will make your position bearable, and mine easy."

"I shall give no promises," said Andrew haughtily. "I have been arrested, and brought here a prisoner, and I shall act as a prisoner would."

"Try to escape? Don't attempt to do anything so foolish, my lad. I will speak out like a friend to you. There has been some important news brought to the Palace; the guard has been quadrupled in number, double sentries have been placed, and they would fire at any one attempting to pass the gates without the word to-night. Now, give me your promise."

"I—will—not," said Andrew, speaking firmly, and meeting the captain's eyes without shrinking.

"Don't be so foolish, Drew," whispered Frank.

"I shall do as I think best," was the reply. "You are at liberty to do the same, sir."

"Very well," said Captain Murray, interrupting them. "Perhaps you will be more sensible and manly after a night's rest. I did not expect to find a lad of your years behaving like a spiteful girl."

Andrew's eyes flashed at him; but the captain paid no heed, and went on:

"I have spoken to the colonel, Frank, and for your father's sake he will be glad to see you at the mess table this evening. You are free of it while you are under arrest. I will come for you in half an hour. By the way, I have told my man to come to you for instructions about getting your kit from your room. You will use him while you are a prisoner."

"Oh, thank you, Captain Murray," cried the boy eagerly.

"Pray make use of my servant, Mr Forbes, and order him to fetch what you require."

Andrew bowed coldly, and the captain left the room, his servant tapping at the door directly after, and entering to receive his orders from Frank.

"Now, Drew," he said at last, "tell him what to fetch for you."

"I do not require anything," said the youth coldly. "Yes, look here. There is a little desk on the table in my room; bring me that."

"Hadn't you better give in, and make the best of things?" said Frank, as soon as they were alone.

"Had you not better leave me to myself, Frank Gowan?" said Andrew coldly. "We are no longer friends, but enemies."

"No, we can't be that," cried Frank. "Come; once more, shake hands."

Andrew looked at him for a few moments fixedly, and then said slowly:

"Come, that's better."

"On the day when your King George is humbled to the dust, and you are, with all here, a helpless prisoner. I'll shake hands and forgive you then."

"Not till then?" cried Frank, flushing.

"Not till then."

"Which means that we are never to be friends again, Drew. Nonsense! You are still angry. Captain Murray is right."

"That I speak like a spiteful girl!" cried the lad sharply.

"No, I did not mean that," said Frank quietly; "but if I had meant it, I should not have been very far from right. I hope that you will think differently after a night's rest. Come, think differently now, and give up all those mad thoughts which have done nothing but make us fall out. It isn't too late. Captain Murray is trying to make things pleasant for us; tell him when he comes that you'll dine with him."

Andrew made an angry gesture, and Frank shrugged his shoulders, went into the adjoining room to wash his hands, and came back just as the tramp of soldiers was heard outside, the order was given for them to halt, and then followed their heavy footsteps on the stairs.

The next minute Captain Murray entered the room.

"Ready, bloodthirsty prisoner?" he said, smiling.

"Yes, sir, quite," replied Frank; while Andrew sat at the other end of the room with his back to them.

Frank glanced in his fellow-prisoner's direction, and then turned back to the captain, and his lips moved quickly as he made a gesture in Andrew's direction.

The captain read his meaning, nodded, walked up to the lad, and touched him on the shoulder, making him start to his feet.

"Life's very short, Andrew Forbes," he said quietly, "and soldiers are obliged to look upon it as shorter for them than for other men. It isn't long enough to nurse quarrels or bear malice. I think I have heard you say that you hope to be a soldier some day."

"Yes, I do," said the lad, with a meaning which the captain could not grasp.

"Very well, then; act now like a frank soldier to another who says to you, try and forget this trouble, and help every one to make it easier for you. There's care enough coming, my lad; and I may tell you that the Prince has enough to think about without troubling himself any more over the mad prank of two high-spirited boys. There, I'll wait for you; go into my room, and wash your hands and smooth your face. I venture to say that you will both get a wigging to-morrow, and then be told to go back to your duties."

Andrew did not budge, and the captain's face grew more stern.

"Come on, Drew," cried Frank; but the lad turned away.

"Yes, come along," cried the captain; "a good dinner will do you both good, and make you ready to laugh at your morning's quarrel. Do you hear?"

There was no reply.

"You are not acting like a hero, my lad," said the captain, smiling once more.

Still there was no reply.

"Very well, sir; you refuse your parole, and I can say no more. I have my duty to do, and I cannot offer you my hospitality here. You are still under arrest."

He walked to the door, threw it open, made a sign, and a corporal and two Guardsmen marched in.

"Take this gentleman to the guardroom," he said. "Your officer has his instructions concerning him."

"Oh, Drew!" whispered Frank; but the lad drew himself up, and took a few steps forward, placing himself between the Guards, and kept step with them as they marched out and down the stairs.

The next minute their steps were heard on the paving-stones without, and Frank darted to the window, to stand gazing out, feeling half choked with sorrow for his friend.

A touch on the arm made him remember that Captain Murray was waiting.

"It's a pity, Frank," he said; "but I did all I could. He's a bit too high-spirited, my lad. The best thing for him will be the army; the discipline would do him good."

Frank longed to speak, but he felt that his lips were sealed.

"Well, we must not let a bit of hot temper spoil our dinner, my lad. By the way, what news of your father?"

"None, sir," said the boy sadly, though the thought of what Andrew Forbes had said made him wince.

"Humph!" said Captain Murray, looking at the boy curiously. "There, I don't want to pump you. Tell him next time you write that there will be a grand night at the mess when he comes back to his old place. Now, then, we shall be late."

"Would you mind excusing me, sir?" said Frank.

"Yes, very much. Nonsense! You must be quite hungry by now."

"No: I was; but it's all gone."

"Hah!" said the captain, gripping him by the shoulder; "you're your father's own boy, Frank. I like that, but I can't have it. You accepted the invitation, and I want you, my lad. Never mind Andrew Forbes; he only requires time to cool down. He'll be ready to shake hands in the morning. Come, or we shall get in disgrace for being late."

Frank was marched off to the messroom; but he felt as if every mouthful would choke him, and that he would have given anything to have gone and shared Andrew Forbes's confinement, even if he had only received hard words for his pains.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

A NIGHT ALARM.

It was very plain to Frank that the officers did not look upon his offence in a very serious light, for the younger men received him with a cheer, and the elders with a smile, as they shook hands, while the doctor came and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Hallo, young fire-eater!" he cried; "when are you coming to stay?"

"To stay, sir?" said the boy, feeling puzzled.

"Yes, with your commission. We've lost your father. We must have you to take his place."

"No, sir," said Frank, flushing. "I don't want to take my father's place. I want to see him back in it."

"Well said!" cried the colonel; "what we all want. But get to be a bit more of a man, and then coax the Prince to give you a commission. I think we can make room for Robert Gowan's son in the corps, gentlemen?"

There was a chorus of assent at this; and the colonel went on:

"Come and sit by me, my lad. We can find a chair for you and your guest, Murray, at this end. Why, you're not fit for a page, my lad; they want soft, smooth, girlish fellows for that sort of thing. A young firebrand like you, ready to whip out his sword and use it, is the stuff for a soldier."

Frank wished the old officer would hold his tongue, and not draw attention to him, for every one at the table was listening, and Captain Murray sat smiling with grim satisfaction. But the colonel went on:

"Very glad to see you here this evening, my boy. Why, I hear that you are quite a favourite with the Prince."

"It does not seem like it, sir," said Frank, who was beginning to feel irritated. "I am a prisoner."

There was a laugh at this, which ran rippling down the table.

"Not bad quarters for a prisoner, eh, gentlemen?" said the colonel. "Pooh! my lad, you are only under arrest; and we are very glad you are, for it gives us the opportunity of having the company of Robert Gowan's son."

Frank flushed with pleasure to find how warmly his father's name was received; and the colonel went on:

"Don't you trouble your head about being under arrest, boy. The Prince was obliged to have you marched off. It wouldn't do for him to have every young spark drawing and getting up a fight in the Palace. By the way, what was the quarrel about? You struck young Forbes?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, of course he would draw upon you; but how came you to strike him?"

The boy hesitated; but the colonel's keen eyes were fixed upon him so steadfastly, that he felt that he must speak and clear himself of the suspicion of being a mere quarrelsome schoolboy, and he said firmly:

"He said insulting things about my father, sir." There was a chorus of approval at this; and as soon as there was silence, the colonel looked smilingly round the table:

"I think we might forgive this desperate young culprit for committing that heinous offence, gentlemen. What do you say?"

There was a merry laugh at this; and the colonel turned to the lad.

"We all forgive you, Mr Gowan. It is unanimous. Now, I think we are a little hard upon you; so pray go on with your dinner."

"I don't think his arrest will last long, sir," said Captain Murray, after a while.

"Pooh! No: I'm afraid not," said the colonel; "and we shall lose our young friend's company. The Prince is a good soldier himself, even if he is a German. Gowan will hear no more of it, I should say; and I don't want to raise his hopes unduly, but on the strength of this rising, when we want all good supporters of his Majesty in their places, I should say that the occasion will be made one for sending word to Captain Sir Robert Gowan to come back to his company."

Frank flushed again, and looked at Captain Murray, who smiled and nodded.

"By the way, Murray," said the colonel, "why did you not bring the other young desperado to dinner?" The captain shrugged his shoulders. "A bit sulky," he said. "Feels himself ill-used."

"Oh!" ejaculated the colonel; and seeing Frank's troubled face, he changed the conversation, beginning to talk about the news of a rising in the north, where certain officers were reported to have landed, and where the Pretender, James Francis, was expected to place himself at their head, and march for London.

"A foolish, mad project, I say, gentlemen," exclaimed the colonel; "and whatever my principles may have been, I am a staunch servant of his Majesty King George the First, and the enemy of all who try and disturb the peace of the realm."

A burst of applause followed these words; and the conversation became general, giving Frank the opportunity for thinking over the colonel's words, and of what a triumph it would be for his father to return and take up his old position.

"Poor old Drew!" he said to himself, with a sigh. "What would he think if he heard them talking about its being a mad project?"

Then he went on thinking about how miserable his old companion must be in the guardroom, watched by sentries; and as he kept on eating for form's sake, every mouthful seemed to go against him, and he wished the dinner was over. For, in addition to these thoughts, others terribly painful would keep troubling him, the place being full of sad memories. He recalled that he was sitting in the very seat occupied by the German baron upon that unlucky evening; and the whole scene of the angry encounter came vividly back, even to the words that were spoken. The natural sequence to this was his being called by Andrew Forbes in the dull grey of the early morning to go and witness that terrible sword fight in the Park; and he could hardly repress a shudder as he seemed to see the German's blade flashing and playing about his father's breast, till the two thrusts were delivered, one of which nearly brought the baron's career to a close.

Nothing could have been kinder than the treatment the young guest received from the officers; but nothing could have been more painful to the lad, and again and again he wished himself away as the dinner dragged its slow length along, and he sat there feeling lonely, occupied toward the end almost entirely with thoughts of his father, Andrew's false charge about him being generally uppermost, and raising the indignant colour to his cheeks.

"I wonder where he is now," he thought, "and what he is doing?"

Then once more about what delight his mother would feel if the colonel's ideas came to pass, and Sir Robert came back in triumph.

"Oh, it's too good to be true," thought the boy; but he clung to the hope all the same.

The only time when he was relieved from the pressure of his sad thoughts was when the conversation around grew animated respecting the probabilities of the country being devastated by civil war; but even then it made his heart ache on Andrew Forbes's account, as he heard the quiet contempt with which the elder officers treated the Pretender's prospects, the colonel especially speaking strongly on the subject.

"No," he said, "England will never rise in favour of such a monarch as that. It is a mad business, that will never win support. The poor fellow had better settle down quietly to his life in France. The reign of the Stuarts is quite at an end."

"Poor old Drew," thought Frank. "I wish he could have heard that; but he would not have believed if he had."

Then the officers went on talking of the possibility of their regiment being called upon for active service, and the boy could not help a feeling of wonder at the eager hopes they expressed of having to take part in that which would probably result in several of those present losing their lives or being badly wounded.

"I wonder whether I shall be as careless about my life when I am grown-up and a soldier?" he thought.

The regular dinner had long been over, and the members of the mess had been sitting longer than usual, the probability of the regiment going into active service having supplied them with so much food for discussion that the hour was getting late, and the young guest had several times over felt an intense longing to ask permission to leave the table, his intention being to get Captain Murray to let him join Andrew Forbes. But he felt that as a guest he could not do this, and must wait till the colonel rose.

He was thinking all this impatiently for the last time, feeling wearied out after so terribly exciting a day as he had passed through, when the colonel and all present suddenly sprang to their feet; for a shot rang out from close at hand, followed by a loud, warning cry, as if from a sentry; then, before any one could reach the door to run out and see what was wrong, there was another shot, and again another, followed by a faint and distant cry.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

A WATCH NIGHT.

"What is it—an attack?"

"Quick, gentlemen!" cried the colonel; "every man to his quarters."

He had hardly spoken before a bugle rang out; and as Frank was hurried out with the rest into the courtyard, it was to see, by the dim light of the clouded moon and the feeble oil lamps, that the guard had turned out, and the tramp of feet announced that the rest of the men gathered for the defence of the Palace and its occupants were rapidly hurrying out of their quarters, to form up in one or other of the yards.

Frank felt that he was out of place; but in his interest and excitement he followed Captain Murray like his shadow, and in very few minutes knew that no attack had been made upon the Palace, but that the cause of the alarm was from within, and his heart sank like lead as the captain said to him:

"Poor lad! He must be half crazy to do such a thing. Come with me."

Frank followed him, and the next minute they met, coming from the gate on the Park side, a group of soldiers, marching with fixed bayonets toward the guardroom, two of the men within bearing a stretcher, on which lay Andrew Forbes, apparently lifeless. For the lad had been mad enough to make a dash for his liberty, in spite of knowing what would follow, the result being that the sentry by the guardroom had challenged him to stop, and as he ran on fired. This spread the alarm, and the second sentry toward the gate had followed his comrade's example as he caught a glimpse of the flying figure, while the third sentry outside the gate, standing in full readiness, also caught sight of the lad as he dashed out and was running to reach the trees of the Park.

This shot was either better aimed, or the unfortunate youth literally leaped into the line of fire, for as the sentry drew trigger, just as the lad passed between two of the trees, Drew uttered a sharp cry of agony and fell headlong to the earth.

"Poor lad! poor lad!" muttered Captain Murray; and he made a sign to the soldiers not to interfere, as Frank pressed forward to catch his friend's hand. Then aloud, "Where is the doctor?"

"Here, of course," said that gentleman sharply from just behind them. "Always am where I'm wanted, eh? Look sharp, and take him to the guardroom."

"No, no—to my quarters," said Captain Murray quickly. "Tut—tut—tut! What were they about to let him go?"

In a few minutes the wounded lad was lying on Captain Murray's bed, with the colonel, Captain Murray, and two or three more of the officers present, and Frank by the bedside, for when the colonel said to the lad, "You had better go," the doctor interfered, giving Frank a peculiar cock of the eye as he said, "No, don't send him away; he can help."

Frank darted a grateful look at the surgeon, and prepared to busy himself in undressing the sufferer.

"No, no; don't do that now—only worry him. I can see what's wrong, and get at it."

The position of the injury was plain enough to see from the blood on the lad's sleeve, and the doctor did not hesitate for a moment; but, taking out a keen knife from a little case in his pocket, he slit the sleeve from cuff to shoulder, and then served the deeply stained shirt sleeve the same.

"Dangerous?" said the colonel anxiously. "Pooh! no," said the doctor contemptuously. "Nice clean cut. Just as if it had been done with a knife," as he examined the boy's thin, white left arm. "You ought to give that sentry a stripe, colonel, for his clever shooting. Hah! yes, clean cut for two inches, and then buried itself below the skin. Not enough powder, or it would have gone through instead of stopping in here. No need for any probing or searching. Here we are."

As he spoke he made a slight cut with his keen knife through the white skin, where a little lump of a bluish tint could be seen, pressed with his thumbs on either side, and the bullet came out like a round button through a button-hole, and rolled on to the bed.

"Better save that for him, Gowan," said the doctor cheerfully. "He'll like to keep it as a curiosity. Stopped its chance of festering and worrying him and making him feverish. Now we'll have just a stitch here and a stitch there, and keep the lips of the wound together."

As he spoke he took a needle and silk from his case, just as if he had brought them expecting that they would be wanted, took some lint from one pocket, a roll of bandage from another, and in an incredibly short time had the wound bound up.

"Likely to be serious?" said Captain Murray.

"What, this, sir? Pooh! not much worse than a cut finger. Smart a bit. Poor, weak, girlish sort of a fellow; feeble pulse. Good thing he had fainted, and didn't know what I was doing. Well, squire, how are you?"

Andrew Forbes lay perfectly still, ghastly pale, and with his eyes closely shut, till the doctor pressed up first one lid and then the other, frowning slightly the while.

"Can I get anything for you, doctor?" said Captain Murray.

"Eh? Oh no! He'll be all right. Feels sick, and in a bit of pain. Let him lie there and go to sleep."

"But he is fainting. Oughtn't you to give him something, or to bathe his face?"

"Look here!" cried the doctor testily, "I don't come interfering and crying 'Fours about,' or 'By your right,' or anything of that kind, when you are at the head of your company, do I?"

"Of course not."

"Then don't you interfere when I'm in command over one of my gang. I've told you he's all right. I ought to know."

"Oh yes; let the doctor alone, Murray," said the colonel. "There, I'm heartily glad that matters are no worse. Foolish fellow to attempt such a wild trick. You will want a nurse for him, doctor."

"Nurse! for that? Pooh! nonsense! I'm very glad he was so considerate as not to disturb me over my dinner. I shouldn't have liked that, Squire Gowan. Didn't do it out of spite because he was not asked to dinner, did he?"

"Pish! no; he was asked," said Captain Murray. "Yes; you wanted to say something, Gowan?"

"Only that I will have a mattress on the floor, sir, and stay with him."

"Not necessary, boy," said the doctor sharply.

"Let him be with his friend, doctor," said Captain Murray.

"Friend, sir? I thought they were deadly enemies, trying hard to give me a job this morning to fit their pieces together again. I don't want to stop him from spoiling his night's rest if he likes; but if he stays, won't they begin barking and biting again?"

"Not much fear of that—eh, Frank? There, stay with your friend. I'm in hopes that you will do him more good than the doctor."

"Oh, very well," said that gentleman.

"Then you don't think there is anything to be alarmed about?" said Frank anxiously.

"Pooh! no; not a bit more than if you had cut your finger with a sharp knife. Now, if the bullet had gone in there, or there, or there, or into his thick young head," said the doctor, making pokes at the lad's body as he lay on the bed, "we should have some excuse for being anxious; but a boy who has had his arm scratched by a bullet! The idea is absurd. I say, colonel, are boys of any good whatever in the world?"

"Oh yes, some of them," said the colonel, smiling and giving Frank a kindly nod. "Good night, my lad. There will be no need for you to sit up, I think."

"Not a bit, Gowan," said the doctor quietly. "Don't fidget, boy. He'll be all right."

Frank looked at him dubiously.

"I mean it, my lad," he said, in quite a different tone of voice. "You may trust me. Good night."

He shook hands warmly with the boy, and all but Captain Murray left the chamber, talking about the scare that the shots had created in the Palace.

"I hear they thought the Pretender had dropped in," said the doctor jocosely. Then the door was shut, and the sound cut off.

"I'll leave you now, Frank, my lad," said Captain Murray. "Take one of the pillows, and lie down in the next room on the couch. There's an extra blanket at the foot of the bed. I will speak to my servant to be on the alert, and to come if you ring. Don't scruple to do so, if you think there is the slightest need, and he will fetch the doctor at once. You will lie down?"

"If you think I may," said Frank, as he walked with him to the door of the sitting-room, beyond earshot of the occupant of the bed.

"I am sure you may, my boy. The doctor only confirmed my own impression, and I feel sure he would know at a glance."

"But Drew seems quite insensible, sir."

"Yes—seems," said Captain Murray. "There, trust the doctor. I do implicitly. I think he proved his knowledge in the way he saved Baron Steinberg's life. Good night. You will have to be locked in; but the sentry will have the key, and you can communicate with him as well as ring, so you need not feel lonely. There, once more, good night."

The captain passed out, and Frank caught sight of a tall sentinel on the landing before the door was closed and locked, the boy standing pale and thoughtful for some moments, listening to the retiring steps of his father's old friend, before crossing the room, and entering the chamber, which looked dim and solemn by the light of the two candles upon the dressing table. He took up one of these, and went to the bedside, to stand gazing down at Andrew's drawn face and bandaged arm, his brown hair lying loose upon the pillow, and making his face look the whiter by contrast.

"In much pain, Drew?" he said softly; but there was no reply.

"Can I do anything for you?"

Still no reply, and the impression gathered strength in the boy's mind that his companion could hear what he said but felt too bitter to reply.

This idea grew so strong, that at last he said gently:

"Don't be angry with me, Drew. It is very sad and unfortunate, and I want to try and help you bear it patiently. Would you like me to do anything for you? Talk to you—read to you; or would you like me to write to your father, and tell him of what has happened?"

But, say what he would, Andrew Forbes made no sign, and lay perfectly still—so still, that in his anxiety Frank stretched out his hand to touch the boy's forehead and hands, which were of a pleasant temperature.

"He is too much put out to speak," thought Frank; "and I don't wonder. He must feel cruelly disappointed at his failure to escape; but I'm glad he has not got away; for it would have been horrible for him to have gone and joined the poor foolish enthusiasts who have landed in the north."

He stood gazing sadly down at the wounded lad for some minutes, and then softly took the extra pillow and blanket from the bed, carried them to the little couch in the next room, returned for the candles, and, after holding them over the patient for a few minutes, he went back quietly to the sitting-room, placed them on the table, took a book, and sat down to read.

He sat down to read, but he hardly read a line, for the scenes of the past twenty-four hours came between his eyes and the print, and at the end of a quarter of an hour he wearily pushed the book aside, took up one of the candles, and looked in the chamber to see how Andrew appeared to be.

Apparently he had not moved; but now, as the boy was going to ask him again if he could do anything for him, he heard the breath coming and going as if he were sleeping calmly; and feeling that this was the very best thing that could happen to him, he went softly back to his seat, and once more drew the book to his side.

But no; the most interesting work ever written would not have taken his attention, and he sat listening for the breathing in the next room, then to the movements of the sentry outside as he moved from time to time, changing feet, or taking a step or two up and down as far as the size of the landing would allow. Then came a weary yawn, and the clock chimed and struck twelve, while, before it had finished, the sounds of other clocks striking became mingled with it, and Frank listened to the strange jangle, one which he might have heard hundreds of times, but which had never impressed him so before.

At last silence, broken only by the pacings of other sentries; and once more came from the landing a weary yawn, which was infectious, for in spite of his troubles Frank yawned too, and felt startled.

"I can't be sleepy," he said to himself; "who could at such a time?" And to prove to himself that such a thing was impossible, and show his thorough wakefulness, he rose, and once more walked into the chamber, looked at the wounded lad, apparently sleeping calmly, and returned to his seat to read.

And now it suddenly dawned upon him that, in spite of his desire to be thoroughly wakeful, nature was showing him that he could not go through all the past excitement without feeling the effects, for, as he bent firmly over his book to read, he found himself suddenly reading something else—some strange, confused matter about the house in Queen Anne Street, and the broken door.

Then he started up perfectly wakeful, after nodding so low that his face touched the book.

"How absurd!" he muttered; and he rose and walked up and down the room. The sentry heard him, and began to pace the landing.

Frank returned to his seat, looked at the book, and went off instantly fast asleep, and almost immediately woke up again with a start.

"Oh, this won't do," he muttered. "I can't—I won't sleep."

The next minute he was fast, but again he woke up with a start.

"It's of no use," he muttered; "I must give way to it for a few minutes. I'll lie down, and perhaps that will take it off, and I shall be quite right for the rest of the night."

Very unwillingly, but of necessity, for he felt that he was almost asleep as he moved about, he rose, took up the blanket from the couch, threw it round him like a cloak, punched up the pillow, and lay down.

"There!" he said to himself; "that's it. I don't feel so sleepy this way; it's resting oneself by lying down. I believe I could read now, and know what I am reading. How ridiculous it makes one feel to be so horribly sleepy! Some people, they say, can lie down and determine to wake up in an hour, or two hours, or just when they like. Well, I'd do that—I mean I'd try to do that—if I were going to sleep; but I won't sleep. I'll lie here resting for a bit, and then get up again, and go and see how Drew is. It would be brutal to go off soundly, with him lying in that state. How quiet it all seems when one is lying down! It's as if one could hear better. Yes, I can hear Drew breathing quite plain; and how that sentry does keep on yawning! Sentries must get very sleepy sometimes when on duty in the night, and it's a terribly severe punishment for one who does sleep at his post. Well, I'm a sentry at my post to watch over poor Drew, and I should deserve to be very severely punished if I slept; not that I should be punished, except by my own conscience."

He lay perfectly wakeful now, looking at the candles, which both wanted snuffing badly, and making up his mind to snuff them; but he began thinking of his father, then wondering once more where he could be, and feeling proud of the way in which the officers talked about him.

"If the King would only pardon him!" he thought, "how—I must get up and snuff those candles; if I don't, that great black, mushroom-like bit of burnt wick will be tumbling off and burning in the grease, and be what they call a thief in the candle. How it does grow bigger and bigger!"

And it did grow bigger and bigger, and fell into the tiny cup of molten grease—for in those days the King's officers were not supplied with wax candles for their rooms—and it did form a thief, and made the candle gutter down, while the other slowly burned away into the socket, and made a very unpleasant odour in the room, as first one and then the other rose and fell with a wanton-looking, dancing flame, which finally dropped down and rose no more, sending up a tiny column of smoke instead.

Then the sentry was relieved, and so was Frank, for, utterly worn out, he was sleeping heavily, with nature hard at work repairing the waste of the day, and so soundly that he did not know of the reverse of circumstances, and that Andrew Forbes had risen to enter the outer room, and look in, even coming close to his side, as if to see why it was he did not keep watch over him and come and see him from time to time.

History perhaps was repeating itself: the mountain would not go to Mahomet, so Mahomet had to go to the mountain.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

A STRANGE AWAKENING.

There is not much room in a bird's head for brains; but it has plenty of thinking power all the same, and one of the first things a bird thinks out is when he is safe or when he is in danger. As a consequence of this, we have at the present day quite a colony of that shyest of wild birds, the one which will puzzle the owner of a gun to get within range—the wood-pigeon, calmly settled down in Saint James's Park, and feeding upon the grass, not many yards away from the thousands of busy or loitering Londoners going to and fro across the enclosure, which the birds have found out is sacred to bird-dom, a place where no gun is ever fired save on festival days, and though the guns then are big and manipulated by artillerymen, the charges fired are only blank.

But Saint James's Park from its earliest enclosure was always a place for birds—even the name survives on one side of the walk devoted by Charles the Second to his birdcages, where choice specimens were kept; so that a hundred and eighty years ago, when the country was much closer to the old Palace than it is now, there was nothing surprising in the chink, chink of the blackbird and the loud musical song of thrush and lark awakening a sleeper there somewhere about sunrise. And to a boy who loved the country sights and sounds, and whose happiest days had been spent in sunny Hampshire, it was very pleasant to lie there in a half-roused, half-dreamy state listening to the bird notes floating in upon the cool air through an open window, even if the lark's note did come from a cage whose occupant fluttered its wings and pretended to fly as it gazed upward from where it rested upon a freshly cut turf.

The sweet notes set Frank Gowan thinking of the broad marshy fields down by the river, bordered with sedge, reed, and butter-bur, where the clear waters raced along, and the trout could be seen waiting for the breakfast swept down by the stream—where the marsh marigolds studded the banks with their golden chalices, the purple loosestrife grew in brilliant beds of colour, and the creamy meadow-sweet perfumed the morning air. Far more delightful to him than any palace, more musical than the choicest military band, it all sent a restful sense of joy through his frame, the more invigorating that the window was wide, and the odour of the burned-down candles had passed away.

He lay imbibing the sweet sounds and freshness through ear and nostril; but for a time his eyes remained fast closed. Then, at a loud thrilling burst from the lark's cage in the courtyard, both eyes opened, and he lay staring up at the whitewashed ceiling, covered with cracks, and looking like the map of Nowhere in Wonderland. For the lark sang very sweetly to charm the wished-for mate, which never came, and Frank smiled and gradually lowered his eyes so that they were fixed upon the uncurtained window till the lark finished its lay.

Then, and then only, did he begin to think in the way a boy muses when his senses grow more and more awake. First of all he began to wonder why it was that the window was wide-open—not that it mattered, for the air was very cool and sweet; then why it was his bedroom looked so strange; then why it was that the blanket was close up to his face without the sheet; and, lastly, he sat up feeling that horrible sense of depression which comes over us like a cloud when there has been trouble on the previous day—trouble which has been forgotten.

For a moment or two he felt that he must be dreaming. But no, he was dressed, this was Captain Murray's room, there was the door open leading into the chamber where Andrew Forbes lay, and yes—Then it all came with crushing force—he lay wounded after that mad attempt to escape, while the friend who had offered to sit with him and watch had calmly lain down and gone to sleep.

"Oh, it is monstrous!" panted the boy, as he threw the blanket aside, and stepped softly, and trembling with excitement, toward the chamber. For now the dread came that something might have happened during the night, in despite of the doctor's calm way of treating the injury.

The idea was so terrible that, as he reached the door, he stopped short, and turned a ghastly white, not daring to look in. But recalling now that he had heard his friend's breathing quite plainly over-night, he listened with every nerve on the strain. Not a sound, till the lark burst forth again.

He hesitated no longer, but, full of shame and self-reproach for that which he could not help, he stepped softly into the room, and then stood still, staring hard at the bed, and at a blood-stained handkerchief lying where it had been thrown upon the floor.

For a few moments the lad did not stir—he was perfectly stunned; and then he began to look slowly round the room for an explanation.

The bed was without tenant. Had Captain Murray, or some other officer, come with a guard while he slept and taken the prisoner away?

Then the truth came like a flash:—

The window in the next room—it was open!

He darted back and ran to the window to thrust out his head and look down. Yes, it was easy enough; he could himself have got out, hung by his hands, and dropped upon the pavement, which would not have been above eight feet from the soles of his boots as he hung.

But the wound! How could a lad who was badly wounded in the arm manage to perform such a feat?

He must have been half wild, delirious from fever, to have done such a thing. No.

Fresh thoughts came fast now. It stood to reason that if Drew had been half wild with delirium he must have been roused; and he now recalled how coolly the doctor had taken the injury, and Captain Murray's half-contemptuous manner, which he had thought unfeeling. Then, too, it was strange that Drew should have lain as he did, with his eyes tightly closed, just as if he were perfectly insensible, and never making the slightest sign when he had spoken to him.

For a few minutes Frank battled with the notion; but it grew stronger and stronger, and at last he was convinced.

"Then he was shamming," he muttered indignantly, "pretending to be worse than he really was, so as to throw people off their guard, and then try again to escape."

Once more he tried to prove himself to be in the wrong and thoroughly unjust to the wounded lad; but facts are stubborn things, and one after the other they rose up, trifles in themselves, but gaining strength as the array increased, and at last a bitter feeling of anger filled the boy's breast, as he felt perfectly convinced of the truth that Drew had lain there waiting till he was asleep, and then, in spite of his wound, had crept out of the window, dropped, and gone.

But how could he? The sentries had stopped him before; why did they not do so at the second attempt?

And besides, there was the sentry just outside the door. Why had not he heard?

Frank went to the window again, and looked out, to find that it was not deemed necessary to place a guard over the guardroom and the officers' quarters, save that there was one man at the main doorway, and this was beyond an angle from where he stood, while the next sentries were in the courtyard to his left, and the stable-yard, to his right. So that, covered by the darkness, it was comparatively an easy task to drop down unnoticed, though afterwards it was quite a different thing.

"Then he has gone!" said Frank softly; and he shrank away from the window, to stand thinking about how the lad could have managed to get away unseen by the sentries.

Thoughts came faster than ever; and he, as it were, put himself in his companion's position, and unconsciously enacted almost exactly what had taken place. For Frank mentally went through what he would have done under the circumstances if he had been a prisoner who wished to get away.

He would have waited till all was still, and when the sentry at the door was pacing up and down, and his footsteps on the stone landing would help to dull any noise he made, he would slip out of the window, drop on to his toes, and then go down on all fours, and creep along close to the wall beneath the windows, right for the piazza-like place, and along beneath the arches, making not for either of the entrance gates, but for the private garden. There he would be stopped by the wall; but there was a corner there with a set of iron spikes pointing downward to keep people from climbing over, but which to an active lad offered good foot-and hand-hold, by means of which he felt that he could easily get to the top. From there he could drop down, go right across the garden to the outer wall, which divided it from the Park, and get on that somewhere by the help of one of the trees. Once on the top, he could choose his place, and crawl to it like a cat. Then all he had to do was to lower himself by his hands, and drop down, to be free to walk straight away, and take refuge with his friends.

"Oh, I could get out as easily as possible, if I wanted to," muttered Frank. "Poor Drew! what's to become of him now?"

Frank stood thinking still, and saw it all more and more plainly. Drew would know where his father was, and go and join him. And then?

Frank shuddered, for he seemed to see ruin and misery, and the destruction of all prospects for his friend; and, in spite of the indignation he felt against him for his deceit, his heart softened, and he muttered, as he turned to go once more into the bed-chamber:

"Poor old Drew! I did like him so much, after all."

As the boy entered the bedroom something caught his eye on the dressing table, and he looked at it wonderingly. It was the book he had been reading in the other room; the book, he knew, was there on the table when he lay down. Could he have taken it into the bed-chamber? No, he was sure he had not. Besides, there was a pen laid upon it, and it was open at the fly-leaf. Frank panted with excitement, for there, written in his friend's hand, were the words:

"Good-bye, old Frank. We'll shake hands some day, when I come back in triumph. I can't forget you, though we did fall out so much. You'll be wiser some day. I can't write more; my wound hurts so much. I'm going to escape. If they shoot me, never mind; I shall have died like a man, crying, 'God save King James!'

"Drew F."

The tears rose to Frank's eyes, and he did not feel ashamed of them, as he closed the book and thrust it into his pocket.

"Poor old Drew!" he said softly; "he believes he is doing right, and it is, after all, what his father taught him. My father taught me differently, so we can't agree."

What should he do? He must speak out, and it could make no difference now, for Drew must be safe away. He did not like to summon the sentry, and he shrank too, for he felt that he might be accused of aiding in the escape; but while he was thinking he heard steps crossing the open space in front, and glancing through the chamber window, he saw Captain Murray and the doctor coming toward the place.

The next minute their steps were on the stairs, the sentry challenged, the key rattled in the door, and the doctor entered first, to say jocularly as Frank advanced from the chamber:

"Morning, Gowan. Wounded man's not dead, I hope."



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

IN MORE HOT WATER.

Frank gazed sharply at the doctor, but remained silent, his countenance being so fixed and strange that Captain Murray took alarm.

"Hang it, Frank lad, what's the matter? Why don't you speak?"

He did not wait to hear the boy's answer, but rushed at once into his bed-chamber and returned directly.

"Here, what is the meaning of this?" he cried. "Where is young Forbes?"

"Gone, sir," said Frank, finding his voice.

"Gone? What do you mean?"

"I sat up watching him till I could not keep my eyes open. Then I lay down, and when I awoke this morning the window was open, and he had escaped."

"Impossible!" cried Captain Murray angrily.

"Humph! I don't know so much about that, Murray," said the doctor, after indulging in a grunt. "The young rascal was gammoning us last night, pretending to be so bad."

"But there was no deceit about the wound."

"Not a bit, man; but he was making far more fuss about it than was real. It was only a clean cut, especially where I divided the skin and let out the ball. By George! though, the young rascal could bear a bit of pain."

"But do you mean to tell me that he could escape alone with a wound like that to disable his arm?"

"Oh yes. It would hurt him terribly; but a lad with plenty of courage would grin and bear that, and get away all the same. I'm glad of it."

"What! Glad the prisoner has escaped?"

"Oh, I don't mean that," said the doctor. "I mean glad he had so much stuff in him. It was a clever bit of acting, and shows that he must have the nerve of a strong man. I beg his pardon, for last night I thought him as weak as a girl for making so much fuss over a mere scratch. It was all sham, that insensibility. I knew in a moment—you remember I said so to you when we went away."

The captain nodded.

"But I thought it was the weak, vain, young coxcomb making believe so as to pose as a hero who was suffering horribly."

"But once more," cried Captain Murray warmly, "do you mean to tell me that, with one arm disabled, that boy could have managed to escape from the window without help?"

"To be sure I do. Give him a pretty good sharp, cutting pain while he was using his arm. Did you hear him cry out, Gowan?"

"No, sir," said Frank sharply; and he turned angrily upon the captain: "You said something very harsh about Drew Forbes not being able to get away without help. You don't think I helped him to get away?"

"Yes, I do, boy," said the captain, with soldierly bluntness. "I think you must have known he wanted to escape, and that you helped him to get out of the window; and I consider it a miserably contemptible return for the kindness of your father's old friend."

"It is not true, Captain Murray," cried Frank hotly. "You have no right to doubt my word. Doctor, I assure you I did not know till I woke this morning, when I was utterly astonished."

"And ran to the door, and gave notice to the sentry," said Captain Murray coldly.

"No, I did not do that. I see now that I ought to have done so, and I was hesitating about it when you both came. But I had only just found it out then."

"And I suppose I shall be called to account for letting him go," said the captain bitterly. "Why didn't you go with him? Were you afraid?"

"Oh, come, come, Murray," cried the doctor reproachfully; "don't talk so to the boy. He's speaking the truth, I'll vouch for it. Afraid? Rob Gowan's boy afraid? Pooh! he's made of the wrong sort of stuff."

"Yes, sir," cried the boy, in a voice hoarse with emotion, "I was afraid,—not last night, for I did not know he was going; but when he begged and prayed of me to run away with him, and join the people rising for the Pretender, I was afraid to go and disgrace my mother and father—and myself."

"Well done! well said, Frank, my lad!" cried the doctor, taking him by one hand to begin patting him on the back. "That's a knock down for you, Murray. Now, sir, you've got to apologise to our young friend here—beg his pardon like a man."

"If I have misjudged him, I beg his pardon humbly—like a man," said Captain Murray coldly. "I hope I have; but I cannot help thinking that he must have been aware of his companion's flight. Mr Gowan, your parole is at an end, sir. You will keep closely to these rooms."

"Bah!" cried the doctor; "why don't you say you are going to have him locked up in the black hole. Murray, I'm ashamed of you. It's bile, sir, bile, and I must give you a dose."

"I am going now, doctor," said the captain coldly.

"Which means I am to come away, if I don't want to be locked up too. Very well, I have nothing to do here. There, shake hands, Frank. Don't you mind all this. He believes this now; but he'll soon see that he is wrong, and come back and shake hands. Your father knew how to choose his friends when he chose Captain Murray. He's angry, and, more than that, he's hurt, because he thinks you have deceived him; but you have not, my lad. Doctors can see much farther into a fellow than a soldier can, and both of your windows are as wide-open and clear as crystal. There, it will be all right."

He gave the boy's shoulder a good, warm, friendly grip, and followed the captain out of the room. The door was locked, some orders were given to the sentry, Frank heard the descending steps, and after standing gazing hard at the closed door for some minutes he dropped into the chair by the table, the one in which he had had such a struggle to keep awake. Then he placed his arms before him, and let his head go down upon them, feeling hot, bitter, and indignant against Captain Murray, and as if he were the most unhappy personage in the whole world.

A quarter of an hour must have passed before he started up again with a proud look in his eyes.

"Let him—let everybody think so if they like," he said aloud. "I don't care. She'll believe me, I know she will. Oh! if I could only go to her and tell her; but I can't. No," he cried, in an exultant tone; "she knows me better and I know she'll come to me."



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

A BIG WIGGING.

"I won't show that I mind," thought Frank; and in a matter-of-fact way he went into the bedroom, and made quite a spiteful use of the captain's dressing table and washstand, removing all traces of having passed the night in his clothes, and he had just ended and changed his shoes, which had been brought there, when the outer door was unlocked, and the captain's servant came in to tidy up the place.

The servant was ready to talk; but Frank was in no talking humour, and went and stood looking out of the window till the man had gone, when the boy came away, and began to imitate Andrew Forbes's caged-animal-like walk up and down the room, in which health-giving exercise to a prisoner he was still occupied when there were more steps below—the tramp of soldiers, the guard was changed, and Frank felt a strong desire to look out of the window to see if another sentry was placed there; but he felt too proud. It would be weak and boyish, he thought; so he began walking up and down again, till once more the door was unlocked, and the captain's servant entered, bearing a breakfast tray, and left again.

"Just as if I could eat breakfast after going through all this!" he said sadly. "I'm sure I can't eat a bit." But after a few minutes, when he tried, he found that he could, and became so absorbed in the meal and his thoughts that he blushed like a girl with shame to see what a clearance he had made.

The tray was fetched away, and the morning passed slowly in the expectation that Lady Gowan would come; but midday had arrived without so much as a message, and Frank's heart was sinking again, when he once more heard steps, and upon the door being opened, Captain Murray appeared.

"He has come to say he believes me," thought the boy, as his heart leapt; but it sank again upon his meeting his visitor's eyes, for the captain looked more stern and cold than ever, and his manner communicated itself to the boy.

"You will come with me, Gowan," said the captain sternly.

"Where to?" was upon the boy's lips; but he bit the words back, and swallowed them. He would not have spoken them and humbled himself then for anything, and rising and taking his hat, he walked out and across the courtyard, wondering where he was being taken, for he had half expected that it was to the guardroom to be imprisoned more closely. But a minute showed him that the growing resentment was unnecessary, for he was not apparently to submit to that indignity; and now the blood began to flush up into his temples, for he grasped without having had to ask where his destination was to be.

In fact, the captain marched him to the foot of the great staircase, past the guard, and into the long anteroom, where he spoke to one of the attendants, who went straight to the door at the end leading into the Prince's audience chamber.

And now for a few moments the captain's manner changed, and he bent his head down to whisper hastily:

"The Prince has sent for you, boy, to question you himself. For Heaven's sake speak out frankly the simple truth. I cannot tell you how much depends upon it. Recollect this: your mother's future is at stake, and—"

The attendant reappeared, came to him, and said respectfully:

"His Royal Highness will see you at once."

There was no time for the captain to say more—no opportunity offered for Frank to make any indignant retort concerning the truth. For the curtain was held back, the door opened, and Captain Murray led the way in, slowly followed by his prisoner, who advanced firmly enough toward where the Prince sat, his Royal Highness turning his eyes upon him at once with a most portentous frown.

"Well, sir," he said at once, "so I find that I have fresh bad news of you. You are beginning early in life. Not content with what has passed, you have now turned traitor."

The Prince's looks, if correctly read, seemed to intimate that he expected the boy to drop on his knees and piteously cry for pardon; but to the surprise of both present he cried indignantly:

"It is not true, your Royal Highness."

"Eh? What, sir? How dare you speak to me like this?" cried the Prince. "I have heard everything about this morning's and last night's business, and I find that I have been showing kindness to a young viper of a traitor, who is in direct communication with the enemy, and playing the spy on all my movements so as to send news."

"It is not true, your Highness!" cried the boy warmly. "You have been deceived. Just as if I would do such a thing as that!"

"Do you mean to pretend that this young Forbes, your friend and companion, is not in correspondence with the enemy?"

"No, your Royal Highness," said the lad sadly.

"You knew it?"

"Yes."

"Then, as my servant, why did you not inform me, sir?"

"Because I was your servant, sir, and not a spy," said the boy proudly.

"Very fine language, upon my honour!" cried the Prince. "But you are friends with him; and last night, after his first failure, you helped him to escape."

"I did not, sir!" cried the boy passionately.

"Words, words, sir," said the Prince; "even your friend here, Captain Murray, feels that you did."

"And it is most unjust of him, sir!" cried the boy.

"Don't speak so bluntly to me," said the Prince sternly. "Now attend. You say you did not help him?"

"Yes, your Royal Highness."

"Mind this. I know all the circumstances. Give me some proof that you knew nothing of his escape."

"I can't, sir," cried the boy passionately. "I was asleep, and when I woke he was gone."

"Weak, weak, sir. Now look here; you say you are my servant, and want me to believe in you. Be quite open with me; tell me all you know, and for your mother's sake I will deal leniently with you. What do you know about this rising and the enemy's plans?"

"Nothing, your Highness."

"What! and you were hand and glove with these people. That wretched boy must have escaped to go straight to his father and acquaint him with everything he knows. What reason have I to think you would not do the same?"

"I!" cried the boy indignantly; "I could not do such a thing. Ah!" he cried, with a look of joy, making his white face flush and grow animated. "Your Royal Highness asked me for some proof;" and he lugged at something in his pocket, with which, as he let his hands fall, one had come in contact.

"What have you there, sir?"

"A book, your Highness," panted the boy; "but it won't come out. Hah! that's it. Look, look! I found that on the table when I woke this morning. See what he has written here."

Frank was thinking nothing about royalty or court etiquette in his excitement. He dragged out the book, opened the cover, went close up to the Prince, and banged it down before him, pointing to the words, which the Prince took and read before turning his fierce gaze upon the lad's glowing face.

"There!" cried the boy, "that proves it. You must see now, sir. He cheated me. I thought he was very bad. But you see he was well enough to go. That shows how he wanted me to join him, and I wouldn't. Oh, don't say you can't see!"

"Yes, I can see," said the Prince, without taking his eyes off him. "Did you know of this, Captain Murray?"

"I? No, your Royal Highness. It is fresh to me."

"Read."

Captain Murray took the book, read the scrap of writing, and, forgetting the Prince's presence, he held out his hands to his brother-officer's son.

"Oh, Frank, my boy!" he cried, "forgive me for doubting your word."

"Oh yes, I forgive you!" cried the lad, seizing and clinging to his hands. "I knew you'd find out the truth. I don't mind now."

"Humph!" ejaculated the Prince, looking on gravely, but with his face softening a little. "The boy's honest enough, sir. But you occupy a very curious position, young gentleman, a very curious position, and everything naturally looked very black against you."

"Did it, your Highness? Yes, I suppose so."

"Then you had been quarrelling with that wretched young traitor about joining the—the enemy?" said the Prince.

Frank winced at "wretched young traitor"; but he answered firmly:

"Yes, sir; we were always quarrelling about it, but I hoped to get him to think right at last."

"And failed, eh?" said the Prince, with a smile.

"Yes, sir."

"And pray, was it about this business that you fought out yonder?"

"It had something to do with it, sir," said Frank, flushing up. "He said—"

Frank stopped short, looking sadly confused, and grew more so as he found the questioner had fixed his eyes, full now of suspicion, upon him.

"Well, what did he say, sir?"

Frank was silent, and hung his head.

"Do you hear me, sir?"

"Must I speak, Captain Murray?" said the boy appealingly.

"Yes, the simple truth."

"He said, your Royal Highness, that my father had joined the enemy, and was a general in the rebel army, and I struck him for daring to utter such a lie—and then we fought."

"Why?" said the Prince sternly, "for telling you the truth?"

"The truth, sir!" cried the boy indignantly. "Don't say you believe that of my father, sir. There is not a more faithful officer in the King's service."

"Your father is not in the King's service, but holds a high command with the rebels, boy."

"No, sir, no!" cried the lad passionately; "it is not true." At that moment, when he had not heard the rustling of a dress, a soft hand was laid upon Frank's shoulder, and, turning sharply, he saw that it was the Princess who had approached and now looked pityingly in his face, and then turned to the Prince.

"Don't be angry with him," she said gently; "it is very brave of him to speak like this, and terrible for him, poor boy, to know the truth."

"No, no, your Highness, it is not true!" cried Frank wildly; and he caught and kissed, and then clung to the Princess's hand.

"My poor boy!" she said tenderly.

"No, no; don't you believe it, madam!" he cried. "It is not—it can't be true. Some enemy has told you this."

"No," said the Princess gently, "no enemy, my boy. It was told me by one who knows too well. I had it from your mother's lips."

Frank gazed at her blankly, and his eyes then grew full of reproach, as they seemed to say, "How can you, who are her friend, believe such a thing?"

"There boy," said the Prince, interposing; "come here."

Frank turned to him, and his eyes flashed.

"Don't look like that," continued the Prince. "I am not angry with you now. I believe you, and I like your brave, honest way in defending your father. But you see how all this is true."

"No!" cried the boy firmly. "Your Royal Highness and the Princess have been deceived. Some one has brought a lying report to my poor mother, who ought to have been the last to believe it. I cannot and will not think it is true."

"Very well," said the Prince quietly. "You can go on believing that it is not. I wish, my boy, I could. There, you can go back to your duties. You will not go over to the enemy, I see."

The boy looked at the speaker as if about to make some angry speech; but his emotions strangled him, and, forgetting all etiquette, he turned and hurried from the room.

"Look after him, Captain Murray," said the Prince quietly; "true gold is too valuable to be lost."

The captain bowed, and hurried into the antechamber; but Frank had gone, one of the gentlemen in attendance saying that he had rushed through the chamber as if he had been half mad, and leaped down the stairs three or four at a time.

"Gone straight to his mother," thought the captain; and he went on down the staircase, frowning and sad, for he was sick at heart about the news he had that morning learned of his old friend.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

FRANK'S FAITH.

Frank went straight to his mother's apartments.

"I don't think my lady is well enough to see you to-day, sir," said her woman.

"Tell her I must see her," cried the boy passionately; and a few minutes after, looking very white and strange, Lady Gowan entered the room.

She looked inquiringly in the boy's eyes, and a faint sob escaped her lips as she caught him in her arms, kissed him passionately, and then laid her head upon his shoulder, while for some minutes she sobbed so violently that the boy dared not speak, but tried to caress her into calmness once more.

"Oh, Frank, Frank!" she sighed at last; and he held her more tightly to his breast.

"I was obliged to come, mother," he said; "and now that I have come I dare not speak."

"Yes, speak, dear, speak; say anything to me now," she sighed.

"But it seems so cruel, mother, while you are ill like this!"

"Speak, dear, speak. I ought to have sent to you before; but I was so heart-broken, so cowardly and weak, that I dared not confess it even to my own child."

"Mother," cried the boy passionately, "it is not true."

Lady Gowan heaved a piteous sigh.

"The Prince sent for me, thinking I helped Drew Forbes to escape."

"Ah! He has escaped?"

"Yes, gone to join his father with the rebels; but the Prince believes me now. He asked me first if I were going to join my father with the rebels too."

"And—and—what did you say?" faltered Lady Gowan.

"I?" cried the boy proudly. "I told him that he had no more faithful servant living than my father, though he was dismissed from the Guards."

Lady Gowan uttered a weary sigh once more.

"Oh, mother!" cried Frank, "shame on you to believe this miserable lie! How can you be so weak!"

"Ah, Frank, Frank, Frank!" she sighed wearily.

"It seems too horrible to imagine that you could so readily think such a thing. The Prince believes it, and the Princess too, and she said the news came from you."

"Yes, dear, I was obliged to tell her. Frank, my boy, I knew it when I saw you last—when I was in such trouble, and spoke so angrily to you. I could not, oh, I could not tell you then."

"No. I am very glad you could not, mother," said the boy firmly. "You cannot, and you shall not, believe it. Can't you see that it is impossible? There, don't speak to me; don't think about it any more. You are weak and ill, and that makes you ready to think things which you would laugh at as absurd at another time. Oh, I wish I had said what I ought to have said to the Prince," he cried excitedly. "I did not think of it then."

"What—what would you have said?" cried Lady Gowan, raising her pale, drawn face to gaze in her son's eyes.

"That he could soon prove my father's truth by sending him orders to come back and take his place in the regiment."

"Ah!" sighed Lady Gowan; and she let her head fall once more upon her son's shoulder.

Frank started impatiently.

"Oh!" he cried, "and you will go on believing it. There, I can't be angry with you now, you are so ill; but try and believe the truth, mother. Father is the King's servant, and he would not—he could not break his oaths. There, you will see the truth when you get better; and you must, you must get better now. It was this news which made you so ill?"

"Yes, my boy, yes," she said, in a faint whisper; "and I blame myself for not going with him. If I had been by his side, he would not have changed."

"He has not changed, mother," said the lad firmly. "But how did you get the news?"

"It came through Andrew Forbes's father—Mr George Selby, as he calls himself now. He sent it to—to one of the gentlemen in the Palace. I must not mention names."

"Ha—ha—ha!" laughed Frank scornfully. "I thought it was some miserable, hatched-up lie. Mr George Selby has been playing a contemptible, spy-like part, trying to gain over people in the Palace. He and his party tried to get me to join them."

"You, my boy?" cried Lady Gowan, in wonder; "and you did not tell me."

"No; conspiracies are not for women to know anything about," said the boy, talking grandly. "But I did tell my father."

"Yes; and what did he say?"

"Almost nothing. I forget now, mother. Treated it with contempt. There, I must go now."

"Back under arrest?"

"Arrest? No, dear. I am the Prince's page, and he knows now that I am no rebel. I am to go back to my duties as if nothing had happened."

Lady Gowan uttered a sigh full of relief.

"But I'm going to prove first of all how terribly wrong you have been, mother, in believing this miserable scandal. It is because my poor father is down, and everybody is ready to trample upon him. But we'll show them yet. You must be brave, mother, and look and speak as if now you did not believe a word about the story. Do as I will do: go back to your place with the Princess, and hold up your head proudly."

"No, no, no, my boy; I have been praying the Princess to let us both go away from the court, for that our position here was horrible."

"Ah! and what did she say?" cried Frank excitedly.

"That it was impossible; that we were not to blame, and that I was more her friend than ever."

"Oh, I do love the Princess!" cried the boy enthusiastically. "There, you see, she does not at heart believe the miserable tale. No, you shall not go away, mother; it would be like owning that it was true. Be brave and good and full of faith. Father said I was to defend you while he was away, and I'm going to—against yourself while you are weak and ill. Oh, what lots of things you've taught me about trying to be brave and upright and true; now I'm going to try and show you that I will. We cannot leave the court; it would be dishonouring father. Good-bye till to-morrow. Oh, mother, how old all this makes me feel."

"My own boy!"

"Yes, but I don't feel a bit like a boy now, mother. It's just as if I had been here for years. There, once more kiss me—good-bye!"

"My darling! But what are you going to do?"

"Something to show you that father has been slandered. Good-bye! To-morrow I shall make you laugh for joy."

And tearing himself away from his mother's clinging arms, the boy hurried out, down the stairs, and out into the courtyard, full of the plan now in his mind.



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

A STIRRING ENCOUNTER.

More sentries were about the Palace, and the guardroom was full of soldiers, but no one interfered with the Prince's page, who went straight to the gates, and without the slightest attempt at concealment walked across to the banks of the canal, along by its edge to the end, passed round, and made for his father's house.

Twice over he saw men whom his ready imagination suggested as belonging to the corps of spies who kept the comers and goers from the Palace under observation, but he would not notice them.

"Let them watch if they like. I'm doing something I'm proud of, and not ashamed."

In this spirit he made for the house, and reached it, to find that the battered door had been replaced by a new one, which looked bright and glistening in its coats of fresh paint.

He knocked and rang boldly, and as he waited he glanced carelessly to right and left, to see that one of the men he had passed in the Park had followed, and was sauntering slowly along in his direction.

"How miserably ashamed of himself a fellow like that must feel!" he thought.

At that moment there was the rattling of a chain inside, and the door was opened as far as the links would allow.

"Oh, it's you, Master Francis," said the housekeeper, whose scared and troubled face began to beam with a smile; and directly after he was admitted, and the door closed and fastened once more.

Frank confined his words to friendly inquiries as to the old servant's health, and she hesitated after replying, as if expecting that he would begin to question her; but he went on upstairs, and shut himself in the gloomy-looking room overlooking the Park. Then, obeying his first impulse, he walked to the window to throw back the shutters.

"No. Wouldn't do," he said to himself. "There is sure to be some one watching the house from the back, and it would show them that I came straight here for some particular reason. I can manage in the dark."

It was not quite dark to one who well knew the place; and with beating heart he went across to the picture, and, familiar now with the ingenious mechanism, he pressed the fastening, and then stood still, with the picture turned so that the closet stood open before him.

He hesitated, for though he was so full of hope that he felt quite certain that there would be some communication from his father, he did not like to put it to the test for fear of disappointment. That he felt—after his brave defence of his father, and his belief that he would be able to find a letter which would sweep away all doubt and prove to his mother that she was wrong—would be almost unbearable, and so he waited for quite two minutes.

"Oh, what a coward I am," he muttered at last; and running his hand along the bottom shelf, he felt for the letter he hoped to find.

His heart sank, for there was nothing there, and he hesitated once more, feeling that half his chance was gone. But there was the upper shelf, and once more with beating heart he began to pass his hand over it very slowly, and the next moment he touched a packet, which began to glide along the shelf. Then he started back, thrust to the canvas-covered panel and fastened it almost in one movement, turning as he did so to face the door, which was slowly opened, and a dimly seen figure stepped forward, to stand gazing in.

"Why didn't I lock the door after me?" thought the boy, who was half wild now with excitement and dread, as he tried to make out by the few rays which struck across from the shutters who the man could be.

That was too hard; but it seemed from the attitude that his back was half turned to him, and that he was trying to see what was going on in the room.

The next moment he had proof that he was right, for the dimly seen figure softly turned and gazed straight at where he stood.

"He must see me," thought the boy; and in his excitement he felt that he must take the aggressive, and began the attack.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" he cried sharply. "A thief?"

"Oh no, young gentleman," said a voice. "What are you doing here?"

For answer Frank stepped quickly to the window and threw open one of the shutters, the light flashing in and showing him the face of the man he had passed in the Park, the man who had followed him into the street, and seen him enter the house.

"Oh, I see," said Frank contemptuously,—"a spy."

"A gentleman in the King's service, boy, holding his Majesty's warrant, and doing his duty. Why have you come here?"

"Why have I come to my own house? Go back out of here directly. How came the housekeeper to let you in?"

"She did not, my good boy," said the man quietly; "and she did not put up the chain."

"Then how did you get in, sir?"

"With my key of course—into your house."

"Oh, this is insufferable!" panted Frank. "While my father is away it is my house. I am his representative, and I don't believe his Majesty would warrant a miserable spy to use false keys to get into people's homes."

"You have a sharp tongue for a boy," said the man coolly; "but I must know why you have come, all the same."

"Watch and spy, and find out then, you miserable, contemptible hound!" cried Frank in a rage—with the man for coming, and with himself for not having taken better precautions. For it was maddening. There was the letter waiting for him; he had touched it; and now he could not get at it for this man, who would not let him quit his sight, and perhaps after he was gone would search until he found it.

The man looked hard at him for a few moments, but not menacingly. It was in the fashion of a man who was accustomed to be snubbed, bullied, and otherwise insulted, but did not mind these things in the least, so long as he could achieve his ends. He made Frank turn cold, though, with dread, for he began to look round the room, noticing everything in turn in search of the reason for the boy's visit, for naturally he felt certain that there was some special reason, and he meant to find it out.

Frank stood watching him for a while, and then, as the man did not walk straight at the picture, and begin to try if he could find anything behind, the boy began to pluck up courage, and, drawing a long breath by way of preparation, he said, as he stepped forward:

"Now, sir, I don't feel disposed to leave you here while I go upstairs to my old room, so have the goodness to leave."

"When you do, Mr Gowan—not before."

"What!" cried Frank fiercely; and he clapped his hand to where his sword should hang, but it had not been returned to him by the officer who arrested him, and he coloured with rage and annoyance.

"Ah, you have no sword," said the man coolly. "Just as well, for you would not be able to use it. At the least attempt at violence, one call from this whistle would bring help to the back and front of the house, and you would be arrested. I presume you do not want to be in prison again?"

"What do you know about my being arrested?"

"There is not much that I do not know," said the man, with a laugh. "It is of no use to kick, my good sir. I only wish you to understand that violence will do no good."

"Bah!" ejaculated Frank angrily; and he walked straight out of the room on to the landing, trying to bang the door behind him; but the man caught it, and came out quickly and quietly after him.

"What shall I do?" thought Frank; and for a moment he was disposed to descend and leave the house, but he felt that he could not without first gaining possession of the letter. It would be impossible to bear the strain, especially with the accompaniment of the dread of its being discovered and placing information which might prove disastrous to his father in the hands of a spy.

The next minute his mind was made up. He determined to weary out the man if he could, while he on his part went up to his own old bedroom, which he used to occupy when he came home from school while his father and mother were in town. He would go up to it, and sit down and read if he could. The man should not come in there, of that he was determined; and he felt that he must risk the fellow's searching the place they had left.

"For if he has a key, he could come in at any time, and hunt about the place. But how did he get a key to fit the door?"