Frank thought for a few moments, and then it was plain enough: he had obtained it from the people who made the new door to the house.

"I must get the letter before I go," thought the boy now, "so as to send word to father that he must not venture to come again, because the place is so closely watched; and I must tell him of this piece of miserable intrusion."

He took a few steps down, and the man followed; but before the landing was reached, he turned sharply round, and began to ascend rapidly.

The man still followed close to his elbow, and in this way the second floor was reached, where the door of Frank's bedroom lay a little to the right.

The last time he was up there he was in company with his father in the dark, on the night of the escape, and a faint thrill of excitement ran through him as he recalled all that had passed.

He turned sharply to the spy, and said indignantly:

"Look here, fellow, this is my bedroom;" and he pointed to the door.

"Yes, I know," said the man coolly; "but it's a long time since you slept there."

"And what's that to you? Go down. You are not coming in there."

"I have the warrant of his Majesty's Minister to go where I please on secret service, sir," said the man blandly; "and you, as one of the Prince's household, dare not try to stop me."

"Oh!" ejaculated the boy fiercely; and seizing the door knob he turned it quickly, meaning to rush in, bang the door in the fellow's face, and lock him out.

"Let him do his worst," thought Frank, who was now beside himself with rage; but he did not carry out his plan, for the door did not yield. It was locked, and as he rattled the knob his fingers rubbed against the handle of the key.

Perhaps it was the friction against the steel which sent a flash of intelligence to his brain; but whether or no the flash darted there, and lit up that which the moment before was very dark with something akin to despair.

He rattled the handle to and fro several times; and uttering an ejaculation full of anger, he threw himself heavily against the door, but it did not of course yield.

"Pooh!" he cried; and letting go of the door knob, he seized the handle of the key, and dragged and dragged at it, making it grate and rattle among the wards, each moment growing more excited, and ended by snatching his hand away, and stamping furiously on the floor.

"Don't stand staring there, idiot!" he cried, with a flash of anger. "Can't you see that key won't turn?"

"Not if you drag at it like that," said the man, smiling blandly. "That is good for locksmiths, not for locks;" and stepping calmly forward, he took hold of the key, turned it slowly so that the bolt shot back with a sharp snap; then, turning the knob, he opened the door, walked into the little bedroom, and stood back a little, holding it so that there was room for Frank to pass in.

"Bah!" ejaculated Frank savagely; and he stepped in, raising his right hand, and making a quick menacing gesture, as if to strike the man a heavy blow across the face.

Taken thoroughly by surprise by Frank's feint, the spy made a step back, when, quick as thought, the boy seized the handle, drew it to him, banging the door and turning the key, and stood panting outside, his enemy shut safely within.

"Here, open this door!" cried the man; and he began to thump heavily upon the panels. "Quick! before I break it down."

"Break it down," cried the boy tauntingly. "How clever for a spy to walk into a trap like that."

There was a moment's silence, and then—as if long coming—something which resembled the echo of Frank's angry stamp on the floor was heard, followed by a heavy bump. The man had thrown himself against the door.

"He won't break out in a hurry," muttered the boy; and he ran to the staircase, and in familiar old fashion seized the rail, threw himself half over, and let himself slide down the polished mahogany to the first floor, where he rushed in, closed and locked the door of the room, hurried excitedly to the picture door of the closet, the portrait of his ancestor seeming to his excited fancy to smile approval, and, as he applied his hand to the fastening, he heard faintly a noise overhead. The next moment a chill ran through him, for the window of his bedroom had evidently been thrown open, and a clear, shrill whistle twice repeated rang out.

"That means help," thought Frank, and he hesitated; but it was now or never, he felt, and opening the closet, he snatched the desired letter from the shelf, thrust it into his breast, and closed the closet once more.

The whistle was sounded again, and a fresh thought assailed the boy.

"They'll seize me, search me, and take the letter away. What shall I do?"

He ran to the window in time to see a strange man climb the rails, and drop into the garden, run toward the house, stoop down, and pick up something.

"The key that opens the front door," cried Frank in despair. "He must have thrown it out."

For a moment or two he stood helpless, unable to move; then, recalling the fact that the man would have to run round to the front door, he darted out of the room, bounded down the staircase, reached the hall door, and with hands trembling from the great excitement in which he was, he slipped the top and bottom bolts.

"Hah!" he ejaculated; "the key won't open them."

Then, darting to the top of the stairs leading down to the housekeeper's room, he ran almost into the old servant's arms.

"Oh, Master Frank, was that you whistling, sir?" she cried.

"No; that man upstairs."

"What man upstairs, my dear?"

"Hush! Don't stop me. Have you a fire there?"

"Yes, my dear; it is very chilly down in that stone-floored room, that I am obliged to have one lit."

"That's right. Go away; I want to be there alone. And listen, Berry; I have bolted the front door. If any one knocks, don't go."

"Oh, my dear, don't say people are coming to break it down again!"

"Never you mind if they are. Get out of my way."

There was the rattling of a key faintly heard, and then bang, bang, bang, and the ringing of the bell.

"They've come," said Frank. "But never mind; I'll let them in before they break it."

There was a faint squeal from the kitchen just then.

"Oh!" cried the housekeeper wildly, "that girl will be going into fits again."

"Let her," said Frank. "Stop! Is the area door fastened?"

"Oh yes, my dear. I always keep that locked."

Frank stopped to hear no more, but ran into the housekeeper's room, whose window, well-barred, looked up a green slope toward the Park.

There was a folding screen standing near the fire, a luxury affected by the old housekeeper, who used it to ward off draughts, which came through the window sashes, and the boy opened this a little to make sure that he was not seen by any one who might come and stare in. Then, standing in its shelter, he tore the letter from his breast pocket, broke the seal, opened it with trembling fingers, and began to read, with eyes beginning to dilate and a choking sensation rising in his breast.

For it was true, then—the charge was correct. Andrew Forbes's words had not been an insult, the Prince had told the simple fact.

"Oh, the shame of it!" panted the boy, as he read and re-read the words couched in the most affectionate strain, telling him not to think ill of the father who loved him dearly, and begged of him to remember that father's position, hopeless of being able to return from his exile, knowing that his life was forfeit, treated as if he were an enemy. So that in despair he had yielded to the pressure put upon him by old friends, and joined them in the bold attempt to place the crown upon the head of the rightful heir.

"Whatever happens, my boy, I leave your mother to you as your care."

Frank's hands were cold and his forehead wet as he read these last words, and the affectionate, loving way in which his father concluded his letter, the last information being that he was in England, and had gone north to join friends who would shortly be marching on London.

"Burn this, the last letter I shall be able to leave for you, unless we triumph. Then we shall meet again."

"'Burn this,'" said Frank, in a strange, husky whisper. "Yes, I meant to burn this;" and in a curious, unemotional way, looking white and wan the while, he dropped the letter in the fire, and stood watching it as it blazed up till the flame drew near the great red wax seal bearing his father's crest. This melted till the crest was blurred out, the wax ran and blazed, and in a few moments there was only a black, crumpled patch of tinder, over and about which a host of tiny sparks seemed to be chasing each other till all was soft and grey.

"I needn't have burned it," said the boy, in a low, pained voice. "What does it matter now?"

He stood looking old and strange as he spoke. It did not seem a boy's face turned to the fire, but that of an effeminate young man in some great suffering, as he said again, in a voice which startled him and made him shiver:

"What does it matter now?"

He turned his head and listened then, before stooping to take up the poker and scatter the grey patch of ashes that still showed letters and words; for he appeared to have suddenly awakened to the fact that the thundering of the knocker was still going on and the bell pealing.

"Hah!" he sighed; "I must go back and tell her I was wrong. Poor mother, what she must feel!"

He moved slowly toward the door of the room, and then encountered the housekeeper standing at the foot of the stairs.

"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she moaned; "what shall we do? I heard them send for hammers to break in again."

"They will not, Berry," he said quietly. "I will go up and let them in."

"Oh, my dear!" cried the woman, forgetting the noise at the front door. "Don't speak like that. What is the matter? You're white as ashes."

"Matter?" he said, looking at the old woman wistfully. "Matter—ashes— yes, ashes. I can't tell you, Berry. I'm ill. I feel as if—as if—"

He did not finish the sentence aloud, but to himself, and he said:

"As if my father I loved so were dead." He walked quietly upstairs now into the hall, where there was the buzzing of voices coming in from the street, where people were collecting, and he distinctly heard some one say:

"Here they come."

It did not seem to him to matter who was coming; and he walked quietly to the door, shot back the bolts, and threw it open, for half a dozen men to make a dash forward to enter; but the boy stood firmly in the opening, with his face flushing once more, and looking more like his old self. "Well," he cried haughtily. "What is it?"

"Mr Bagot—Mr Bagot! Where is he?"

"Bagot? Do you mean the spy who insulted me?" At the word "spy" there was an angry groan from the gathering crowd, and the men began to press forward.

"The fellow insulted me," said Frank loudly, "and I locked him in one of the upstairs rooms."

"Hooray!" came from the crowd. "Well done, youngster!" And then there was a menacing hooting. "Go and fetch him down," continued Frank. "Yah! Spies!" came from the mob, and the men on the step gladly obeyed the order to go upstairs, and rushed into the house.

"Shall we fetch 'em out, sir," cried a big, burly-looking fellow, "and take and pitch 'em in the river?"

"No; leave the miserable wretches alone," said the boy haughtily. "Don't touch them, if they go quietly away."

"Hooray!" shouted the crowd; and then all waited till Bagot came hurriedly down, white with anger, followed by his men, and seized Frank by the shoulder.

"You're my prisoner, sir."

"Stand off!" cried the lad fiercely; and he wrenched himself free, just as the mob, headed by the burly man, dashed forward.

"You put a finger on him again, and we'll hang the lot of you to the nearest lamps!" roared the man fiercely; and the party crowded together, while Frank seized the opportunity to close the door.

"Look here, fellow," he said haughtily. "I am going back to the Palace. You can follow, and ask if you are to arrest me there." Then turning to the crowd:

"Thank you, all of you; but they will not dare to touch me, and if you wish me well don't hurt these men."

"Ur-r-ur!" growled the crowd.

"Look here, you," cried Frank, turning to the leader of the little riot. "I ask you to see that no harm is done to them."

"Then they had better run for it, squire," cried the man. "If they're here in a minute, I won't answer for what happens."

"Then let your lads see me safely back to my quarters," said the boy, as a happy thought; and starting off, the crowd followed him cheering to the Palace gates, where they were stopped by the sentries; and they cheered him loudly once more as he walked slowly by the soldiery.

"Arrested again!" said Frank softly. "Well, if I can only go and see her first, it does not matter now."



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

FRANK ASKS LEAVE TO GO.

"Yes," said Lady Gowan sadly, after her meeting with her son, "it is terrible; but after all my teaching, telling you of your duty to be loyal to those whom we serve and who have been such friends to us, I could not nerve myself to tell you the dreadful truth. You are right, my boy. More than ever now we are out of place here; we must go."

"Yes, mother," said the boy gravely, "we must go."

"Let me read the letter, Frank."

"Read it, mother? I have repeated every word. It wanted no learning. I knew it when I had read it once."

"Yes; but I must read your father's letter to you myself."

"How could I keep it?" he said, almost fiercely. "I expected to be arrested and searched. It is burned."

Lady Gowan uttered a weary sigh, and clung to her boy's hand.

"Going, dear?" she said; "so soon?"

"Yes, mother; I have so much to do. I can't stay now. Perhaps I shall be a prisoner again after this business, and coming back here protected by a riotous crowd."

"No, no, dear; the Prince, however stern his father may be, is just, and he will not punish you."

"I don't know," said the boy drearily. "I want to do something before I am stopped;" and he hurried away, looking older and more careworn than ever, to go at once to the officers' quarters, intending to see Captain Murray; but the first person he met was the doctor, who caught him by the arm, and almost dragged him into his room.

"Sit down there," he cried sharply, as he scanned the boy with his searching gaze.

"Don't stop me, sir, please," said Frank appealingly. "I am very busy. Do you want me?"

"No; but you look as if you want me."

"No, sir—no."

"But I say you do. Don't contradict me. Think I don't know what I'm saying? You do want me. A boy of your years has no business to look like that. What have you been doing? Why, your pulse is galloping nineteen to the dozen, and your head's as hot as fire. You've been eating too much, you voracious young wolf. It's liver and bile. All right, my fine fellow! Pill hydrarg, to-night, and to-morrow morning a delicious goblet before breakfast—sulph mag, tinct sennae, ditto calumba. That will set you right."

Frank looked at him for a moment piteously, and then burst into a strange laugh.

"Eh, hallo!" cried the doctor; "don't laugh in that maniacal way, boy. Have I got hold of the pig by the wrong tail? Bah! I mean the wrong tail by the pig. Nonsense! nonsense! I mean the wrong pig by—Oh, I see now. Why, Frank, my boy, of course. Ah, poor lad! poor lad! Murray has been telling me. Well, it's a bad job, and I shouldn't have thought it of Rob Gowan. But there, I don't know: humanum est errare. Not so much erroring in it either. Circumstances alter cases, and I dare say that if I were kicked out of the army, and I had a chance to be made chief surgeon to the forces of you know whom, I should accept the post."

The boy's head sank down upon his hands, and he did not seem to hear the doctor's words.

"Poor lad!" he continued; "it's a very sad affair, and I'm very sorry for you. I always liked your father, and I never disliked you, which is saying a deal, for I hate boys as a rule. Confounded young monkeys, and no good whatever, except to get into mischief. There, I see now—ought to have seen it with half an eye. There, there, there, my lad; don't take on about it. Cheer up! You're amongst friends who like you, and the sun will come out again, even if it does get behind the black clouds sometimes."

He patted the boy's shoulder, and stroked his back, meaning, old bachelor as he was, to be very tender and fatherly; but it was clumsily done, for the doctor had never served his time to playing at being father, and begun by practising on babies. Hence he only irritated the boy.

"He talks to me and pats me as if I were a dog," said Frank to himself; and he would have manifested his annoyance in some way to one who was doing his best, when fortunately there was a sharp rap at the door, and a familiar voice cried:

"May I come in, doctor?"

"No, sir, no. I'm particularly engaged. Oh, it's you, Murray!—Mind his coming in, Gowan?"

"Oh no; I want to see him!" cried the boy, springing up.

"Come in!" shouted the doctor.

"You here, Frank?" said the captain, holding out his hands, in which the boy sadly placed his own, but withdrew them quickly.

"Yes, of course he is," said the doctor testily. "Came to see his friends. In trouble, and wants comforting."

"Yes," said Captain Murray quietly, as he laid his hand upon the boy's shoulder. "Then you know the truth now, Frank?"

"Yes, sir," said the boy humbly. "I was coming to apologise to you, when the doctor met me and drew me in here."

"Yes; looked so ill. Thought I'd got a job to tinker him up; but he only wants a bit of comforting, to show him he's amongst friends."

"You were coming to do what, boy?" said the captain, as soon as he could get in a word,—"apologise?"

"Yes, sir; I was very obstinate and rude to you."

"Yes, thank goodness, my lad!" cried the captain, holding the boy by both shoulders now, as he hung his head. "Look up. Apologise! Why, Frank, you made me feel very proud of my old friend's son. I always liked you, boy; but never half so well as when you spoke out as you did to the Prince. So you know all now?"

"Yes," said the boy bitterly.

"How?"

"My father has written to me telling me it is true."

"Hah! Well, it's a bad job, my lad; but we will not judge him. Robert Gowan must have suffered bitterly, and been in despair of ever coming back, before he changed his colours. But we can't see why, and how things are. I want no apology, Frank, only for you to come to me as your father's old friend."

Frank looked at him wonderingly.

"Come with me, boy."

Frank looked at him still, but his eyes were wistful now and full of question.

"I want you to come with me to the Prince."

"Yes, sir," said Frank gravely. "I want to beg for an audience before I go."

"Before you go, Frank?"

"Yes, sir. Of course we cannot stay here now."

"Humph! Ah, yes, I see what you mean," said the captain quietly. "Well, come. You are half a soldier, Frank, and the Prince is a soldier, I want you to come and speak out to him, and apologise as you did to me—like a man."

"Yes, sir," replied Frank, "that is what I wished to do."

"Then forward!" cried the captain. "Let's make our charge, even if we are repulsed."

"Good-bye, and thank you, doctor," said Frank.

"What for? Pooh! nonsense, my lad; that's all right. And, I say, people generally come and see me when they want something, physic or plasters, or to have bullet holes stopped up, or arms and legs sewn on again. Don't you wait for anything of that sort, boy; you come sometimes for a friendly bit of chat."

Frank smiled gratefully, but shook his head as he followed Captain Murray out into the stable-yard.

"Come along, Frank; there's nothing like making a bold advance, and getting a trouble over. We may not be able to get an audience with so many officers coming and going; but I'll send in my name."

Frank followed him into the anteroom, the place looking strange to him, and seeming as if it were a year since he had been there last, a fancy assisted by the fact that some five-and-twenty officers, whose faces were strange, stood waiting their turns when Captain Murray sent in his name by a gentleman in attendance.

But, bad as the prospect looked, they did not have long to wait, for, at the end of about a quarter of an hour, the attendant came out, passing over all those who looked up eagerly ready to answer to their names, and walked to where Captain Murray was seated talking in a low voice to Frank.

"His Royal Highness will see you at once, gentlemen."

Frank did not feel in the slightest degree nervous as he entered, but followed the captain with his head erect, ready to speak out and say that for which he had come, when the Prince condescended to hear; but he took no notice of the boy at first, raising his head at last from his writing, and saying:

"Well, Captain Murray, what news?"

"None, your Royal Highness," said the soldier bluffly. "I have only come to bring Frank Gowan, your page, before you."

"Eh? Oh yes. The boy who was so impudent, and told me I was no speaker of the truth."

"I beg your Royal Highness's pardon."

"And you ought, boy. What more have you to say?"

"That I was wrong, sir. I believed it could not be true. I have found out since that it was as you said."

"Hah! You ought always to believe what a royal personage says—eh, Murray?"

The captain bowed, and smiled grimly.

"Don't agree with me," said the Prince sharply. "Well, boy, you are very sorry, eh?"

"Yes, your Royal Highness, I am very sorry," said Frank firmly. "I know better now, and I apologise to you."

The Prince, moving himself round in his chair, frowning to hide a feeling of amusement, stared hard at the lad as if to look him down, and frowned in all seriousness as he found the boy looked him full in the eyes without a quiver of the lid.

"Humph! So you, my page, consider it your duty to come and apologise to me for doubting my word?"

"Yes, your Highness, and to ask your forgiveness."

"And suppose I refuse to give it to so bold and impudent a boy, what then?" and he gazed hard once more in the lad's flushing face.

"I should be very, very sorry, sir; for you and the Princess have been very good and kind to my poor mother and me."

"Yes, yes," said the Prince, "too kind, perhaps, to have such a return as—"

He stopped short as he saw a spasm contract the boy's features.

"But there," he continued, "you are not to blame, and I do forgive you, boy. I liked the bold, brave way in which you showed your belief in your father."

Captain Murray darted a quick glance at his young companion, as much as to say, "I told you so."

"Go on, my boy, as you have begun, and you will make a firm, strong, trustworthy man; and, goodness knows, we want them badly enough. There, I will not say any more—yes, I will one word, my boy. I am sorry that your father was not recalled some time back. He was a brave soldier, for whom I felt respect."

Frank could bear no more, and he bent his head to conceal the workings of his face.

"There, take him away, Murray, and keep him under your eye. There's good stuff in the boy, and we must get him a commission as soon as he is old enough."

"No, your Highness," said Frank, recovering himself.

"Eh? What?"

"I came to beg your Royal Highness's pardon, and to ask your permission for my mother and me to leave the royal service at once. We both feel that it is not the place for us now."

"Humph!" ejaculated the Prince, frowning; "and I think differently. Take him away, Murray; the boy is hurt—wounded now.—That will do, Gowan; go. No: I refuse absolutely. The Princess does not wish Lady Gowan to leave; and I want you."

"There!" cried Captain Murray, as they crossed the courtyard on their way back to the officers' quarters; "it is what I expected of the Prince. You can't leave us unless you run away, Frank; and you've proved yourself too much of a gentleman for that. You see, everybody wants you here."

Frank could not trust himself to speak, for he was, in spite of his troubles, some years short of manhood and manhood's strength.



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

THE WORST NEWS.

Next morning Frank rose in his old quarters, firmly determined to keep to his decision. It was very kind and generous of the Prince, he felt; but his position would be intolerable, and his mother would not be able to bear an existence fraught with so much misery; and, full of the intention to see her and beg her to prevail on the Princess to let them leave, he waited his time.

But it did not come that day. He had to return to his duties in the Prince's anteroom, and at such times as he was free he found that his mother was engaged with her royal mistress.

The next day found him more determined than ever; but another, a greater, and more unexpected obstacle was in the way. He went to his mother's apartments, to find that, worn out with sorrow and anxiety, she had taken to her bed, and the Princess's physician had seen her and ordered complete rest, and that she should be kept free from every anxiety.

"How can I go now!" thought the boy; "and how can she be kept free from anxiety!"

It was impossible in both cases, while with the latter every scrap of news would certainly be brought to her, for the Palace hummed with the excitement of the troubles in the north; and as the day glided by there came the news that the Earl of Mar had set up the standard of the Stuarts in Scotland, and proclaimed Prince James King of Great Britain; but the Pretender himself remained in France, waiting for the promised assistance of the French Government, which was slow in coming.

Still the Scottish nobles worked hard in the Prince's cause, and by degrees the Earl of Mar collected an army of ten thousand fighting men, including the staunch Highlanders, who readily assumed claymore and target at the gathering of the clans.

It was over the English rising that Frank was the more deeply interested, and he eagerly hungered for every scrap of news which was brought to the Palace, Captain Murray hearing nearly everything, and readily responding to the boy's questions, though he always shook his head and protested that it would do harm and unsettle him.

"You'd better shut up your ears, Frank lad, and go on with your duties," he said one day. "But tell me first, what is the last news about Lady Gowan?"

"Ill, very ill," said the boy wearily. "All this is killing her."

"Then the bad news ought to be kept from her."

"Bad news!" gasped Frank. "Is it then so bad?"

"Of course; isn't it all bad?"

"Oh!" ejaculated the boy; "I thought there was something fresh— something terrible. But how can the news be kept from her? The Princess goes and sits with her every day, and then tells her everything. She learns more than I do, and gets it sooner; but I can't go and ask her, for I always feel as if it were cruel and torturing her to make her speak about our great trouble while she is so ill. Now, tell me all you know."

"It is not much, boy. The Duke of Argyle is busy; he is now appointed to the command of the King's forces in Scotland, and some troops are being landed from Ireland to join his clans."

"Yes, yes; but in England?" cried the boy. "My father is not in Scotland. It is about what is going on in England that I want to know."

It was always the same, and by degrees, as the days went by, Frank learned that his father had, with other gentlemen, joined the Earl of Derwentwater, and that they were threatening Newcastle.

It seemed an age before the next tidings came, and Frank's heart sank, while those in the Palace were holding high festival, for the Pretender's little army there had been beaten off, and was in retreat through Cumberland on the way to Lancashire.

A little later came news that in the boy's secret heart made him rejoice and brought gloom into the Palace. For it soon leaked out that the county militias had been assembled hastily to check the Pretender's forces, but only to be put to flight and scattered in all directions.

Then despatch after despatch reached the Palace from the north, all containing bad news. The rebels had marched on, carrying everything before them till they neared Preston in triumph.

"Then they'll go on increasing in strength," whispered Frank, as he sat with Captain Murray on the evening of the receipt of that news, "and march right on to London!"

"Want them to?" said the captain drily.

"Yes—no—no—yes—I don't know."

"Nice loyal sort of a servant the Prince has got," said the captain.

"Don't talk to me like that, Captain Murray," said the boy passionately. "I feel that I hate for the rebels to succeed; but how can I help wishing my father success?"

"No, you cannot," said the captain quietly. "But he will not succeed, my lad. He and the others are in command of a mere rabble of undisciplined men, and before long on their march they will be met by some of the King's forces sent to intercept them."

"Yes, yes," cried the boy, with his cheeks flushing, "and then?"

"What is likely to happen in spite of the training of the leaders? The undrilled men cannot stand against regular troops, even if they are enthusiastic. No: disaster must come sooner or later, and then there is only one chance for us, Frank."

"For us? I thought you said that the King's troops would win."

"Yes, and they will. I as a soldier feel that it must be so. We shall win; but I say there is only one chance for us as friends—a quick escape for your father to the coast and taking refuge in France. We must not have him taken, Frank, come what may."

"Thank you, Captain Murray," said the boy, laying his hand on his friend's sleeve. "You have made me happier than I have felt for days."

"And it sounds very disloyal, my boy; but I can't help my heart turning to my old friend to wish him safe out of the rout."

"Then you think it will be a rout?" panted Frank.

"It must be sooner or later. They may gain a few little advantages by surprise, or the cowardice of the troops; but those successes can't last, and when the defeat comes it will be the greater, and mean a complete end to a mad scheme."

"But the Prince must be with them by this time, sir."

"The Pretender? No; he is still in France without coming forward, and leaving the misguided men who would place him on the throne to be slaughtered for aught he seems to care."

Captain Murray proved to be a true prophet, for he had spoken on the basis of his experience of what properly trained men could do against troops hastily collected, and badly armed men whose discipline was of the rudest description.

Sooner even than the captain had anticipated the news came in a despatch brought from the north of England. The Pretender's forces, under Lords Derwentwater, Kenmuir, and Nithsdale, were encountered by the King's troops; and before the two bodies joined battle a summons was sent to the rebel army calling upon the men to lay down their arms or be attacked without mercy.

The Pretender's generals tried to treat the summons to surrender with contempt, laughed at it, and bade their followers to stand fast and the victory would be theirs. But, in spite of the exhortations of their officers, the sight of the King's regular troops drawn up in battle array proved too much for the raw forces. Probably they were wearied with marching and the many difficulties they had had to encounter. Their enthusiasm leaked out, life seemed far preferable to death, and they surrendered at discretion.

There was feasting and rejoicing at Saint James's that night, when the news came of the bloodless victory; while in one of the apartments mother and son were shut up alone in the agony of their misery and despair, for whatever might be the fate of the common people of the Pretender's army, the action of the King toward all who opposed him was known to be of merciless severity. The leaders of the rebellion could expect but one fate—death by the executioner.

"But, mother, mother! oh, don't give way to despair like that," cried Frank. "We have heard so little yet. Father would fight to the last before he would fly; but when all was over he would be too clever for the enemy, and escape in safety to the coast."

"No," said Lady Gowan, in tones which startled her son. "Your father, Frank, would never desert the men he had led. It would be to victory or death. It was not to victory they marched that day."

"But his name is not mentioned in the despatch."

"No," said Lady Gowan sadly. "Nor is that of Colonel Forbes."

"Ah!" cried Frank; "and poor Drew, he would be there."

At last he was compelled to quit the poor, suffering woman; but before going to his own chamber, he went over to the officers' quarters, to try and see Captain Murray.

There was a light in his room, and the sound of voices in earnest conversation; and Frank was turning back, to go and sit alone in his despair, when he recognised the doctor's tones, and he knocked and entered.

The eager conversation stopped on the instant, as the two occupants of the room saw the boy's anxious, white face looking inquiringly from one to the other.

"Come in and sit down," said Captain Murray, in a voice which told of his emotion; "sit down, my boy."

Frank obeyed in silence, trying hard to read the captain's thoughts.

"You have come from your mother?"

"Yes; she is very ill."

"She has heard of the disaster, then?"

"Yes. The Princess went and broke it to her as gently as she could."

"And she told you?"

"Yes; she sent for me as soon as she heard."

"Poor lady!" said the captain.

"Amen to that," said the doctor huskily; and he pulled out his snuff-box, and took three pinches in succession, making himself sneeze violently as an excuse for taking out his great red-and-yellow silk handkerchief and using it to a great extent.

"Hah!" he said at last, as he looked across at Frank, with his eyes quite wet; "and poor old Robert Gowan! Rebel, they call him; but we here, Frank, can only look upon him more as brother than friend."

"But," cried the boy passionately, "there is hope for him yet. He is not taken, in spite of what my mother said. He would have escaped to the coast, and made again for France."

"What did your mother say?" asked Captain Murray, looking at the boy fixedly.

"My mother say? That my father would never forsake the men whom he was leading to victory or death."

"Yes; she was right, Frank, my lad. He would never turn his back on his men to save himself."

"Of course not, till the day was hopelessly lost."

"Not when the day was hopelessly lost," said Captain Murray, so sternly that Frank took alarm.

"Why do you speak to me like that?" he cried, rising from his seat. "His name was not in the despatch. Ah! you have heard. There is something worse behind. Oh, Captain Murray, don't say that he was killed."

"I say," said that officer sadly, "it were better that he had been killed—that he had died leading his men, as a brave officer should die."

"Then he did not," cried Frank, with a hoarse sigh of relief.

"No, he escaped that."

"And to liberty?"

"No, my boy, no," said the doctor, uttering a groan.

"But I tell you that his name was not in the despatch. He couldn't have been taken prisoner."

There was silence in the room, and the candles for want of snuffing were very dim.

"Why don't you speak to me?" cried Frank passionately. "Am I such a boy that you treat me as a child?"

"My poor lad! You must know the truth," said Captain Murray gently. "Your father's and Colonel Forbes's names are both in the despatch as prisoners."

"No, no, no!" cried Frank wildly. "The Princess—"

"Kept the worst news back, to try and spare your poor mother pain. It is as I always feared."

"Then you are right," moaned Frank; and he uttered a piteous cry. "Yes, it would have been better if he had died."

For the headsman's axe seemed to be glimmering in the black darkness ahead, and he shuddered as he recalled once more what he had seen on Temple Bar.



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

UNDER THE DARK CLOUD.

There was no waiting for news now. Despatch succeeded despatch rapidly, and the occupants of the Palace were made familiar with the proceedings in the north; and as Frank heard more and more of the disastrous tidings he was in agony, and at last announced to Captain Murray that he could bear it all no longer.

"I must go and join my father," he said one day. "It is cruel and cowardly to stay here in the midst of all this luxury and rejoicing, while he is being dragged up to London like a criminal."

"Have you told Lady Gowan of your intentions?" said the captain quietly.

"Told her? No!" cried Frank excitedly. "Why, in her state it would half kill her."

"And if you break away from here and go to join your father, it would quite kill her."

Frank looked at him aghast, and the captain went on:

"We must practise common sense, Frank, and not act madly at a time like this."

"Is it to act madly to go and help one's father in his great trouble?"

"No; you must help him, but in the best way."

"That is the best way," said the boy hotly.

"No. What would you do?"

"Go straight to him and try and make his lot more bearable. Think how glad he would be to see me."

"Of course he would, and then he would blame you for leaving your mother's side when she is sick and suffering."

"But this is such a terrible time of need. I must go to him; but I wanted to be straightforward and tell you first."

"Good lad."

"Think what a terrible position mine is, Captain Murray."

"I do, boy, constantly; but I must, as your friend and your father's, look at the position sensibly."

"Oh, you are so cold and calculating, when my father's life is at stake."

"Yes. I don't want you to do anything that would injure him."

"I—injure him!"

"Yes, boy."

"But I only want to be by his side."

"Well, to do that you would run away from here, for the Prince would not let you go."

"No, he will not. I asked him."

"You did?"

"Yes, two days ago."

"Then if you go without leave, you will make a good friend angry."

"Perhaps so; but I cannot stay away."

"You must, boy, for it would be injuring your father; and, look here, if you went, you could not get near the prisoners. Those who have them in charge would not let you pass."

"But I would get a permission from the King."

"Rubbish, boy! He would not listen to you. He might as a man be ready to pardon your father; but as King he would feel that he could not. No; I must speak plainly to you: his Majesty will deal sternly with the prisoners, to make an example for his enemies, and show them the folly of attempting to shake his position on the throne."

"Oh, Captain Murray! Captain Murray!" cried the boy.

"Look here, Frank lad. Your journey to meet the prisoners would be an utter waste of energy, and you would most likely miss them, for to avoid the possibility of attempts at rescue their escort would probably take all kinds of byways and be constantly changing their route."

"But I should have tried to help my father, even if I failed."

"Don't run the risk of failure, boy," said the captain earnestly. "Our only hopes lie in the Prince and Princess. The Prince would, I feel sure, spare your father's life if he could, for the sake of his wife's friend. But he is not king, only a subject like ourselves, and he will be governed by his father and his father's Ministers. Now you see that you must not alienate our only hope by doing rash things."

Frank looked at him in despair.

"Now do you see why I oppose you?"

"Yes, yes," said the boy despondently. "Oh, how I wish I were wise!"

"There is only one way to grow wise, Frank: learn—think and calculate before you make a step. Now, look here, my boy. The Prince has plenty of good points in his character. He likes you; and he shall be appealed to through your mother and the Princess. Now, promise me that you will do nothing rashly, and that you will give up this project."

"Should I be right in giving it up?"

"Yes," said the captain emphatically.

"But what will my father think? I shall seem to be forsaking him in his great trouble."

"He will think you are doing your duty, and are trying hard to save his life. Come, don't be down-hearted, for we are all at work. There is our regiment to count upon yet—the King's own Guards, who will, to a man, join in a prayer to his Majesty to spare the life of the most popular officer in the corps."

"Ah! yes," cried Frank.

"I don't want even to hint at mutiny; but the King at a time like this would think twice before refusing the prayer of the best regiment in his service."

"Oh, Captain Murray!" cried the lad excitedly. "I will promise everything. I will go by your advice."

"That's right, my lad; my head is a little older than yours, you know. Now, go back to your duties, and let the Prince see that his page is waiting hopefully and patiently to see how he will help him. Go to your mother, too, all you can, and tell her, to cheer her up, that we are all hard at work, and that no stone shall be left unturned to save Sir Robert's life."

Frank caught the captain's hands in his, and stood holding them for a few moments before hurrying out of the room.

Then more news came of each day's march, and of the slow approach of the prisoners—the leaders only, the rest being imprisoned in Cheshire and Lancashire to await their fate.

It was hard work, but Frank kept his word, trying to be more energetic than ever over his duties, and finding that he was not passing unnoticed, for every morning the Prince gave him a quiet look of recognition, or a friendly nod, but never once spoke.

The most painful part of his life in those days was in his visits to his mother. These were agony to him, feeling as he did more and more how utterly insignificant and helpless he was; but he had one satisfaction to keep him going and make him look forward longingly for the next meeting—paradoxical as it may sound—so as to suffer more agony and despair, for he could plainly see that his mother clung to him now as her only stay, and that she was happiest when he was with her, and begged and prayed of him to come back to her as soon as he possibly could, now that she was so weak and ill.

"I believe, my darling," she whispered one evening, "that I should have died if you had not been here."

"Yes, my lad," said the Princess's physician to him as well; "you must be with Lady Gowan as much as you can. Her illness is mental, and you can do more for her now than I can. Ha—ha! I shall have to resign my post to you."

"Yes," said the boy to himself, "Captain Murray is quite right;" and he went straight to his friend's quarters, as he often did, to give him an account of his mother's state.

"Yes, sir," he said; "you were quite right: it would have killed her if I had gone away."

"Come, you are beginning to believe in me, Frank. Now I have some news for you."

"About Drew Forbes?" cried Frank eagerly.

"No; I have made all the inquiries I can, but I can hear nothing of the poor fellow. His father is with yours; but the lad seems to have dropped out of sight, and I have my fears."

"Oh, don't say that," cried Frank excitedly; "he was so young."

"Yes," said the captain grimly; "but in a fight young and old run equal chances, while in the exposure and suffering of forced marches the young and untried fare worse than the old and seasoned. Drew Forbes was a weak, girlish fellow, all brain and no muscle. I am in hopes, though, that he may have broken down, and be lying sick at some cottage or farmhouse."

"Hopes!" cried Frank.

"Yes, he may get well with rest. Better than being well and strong, and on his way to suffer by the rope or axe."

Frank shuddered.

"Now then," cried the captain sharply, to change the conversation; "you found my advice good?"

"Yes, yes," said Frank.

"Then take some more. Look here, Frank; the doctor and I were talking about you last night, and he is growing very anxious. He said the blade was wearing out the scabbard, and that you were making an old man of yourself."

"Not a young one yet," said the boy, smiling sadly.

"Never mind that. You'll grow old soon enough. He says what I think, that you never go out, and that you will break down."

"Oh, absurd! I don't want exercise."

For answer the captain clapped him on the shoulder, and twisted him round.

"Look at your white face in the glass, my boy. Don't risk illness. You will want all your strength directly in the fight for life to come. Your father will, in all probability, reach London to-morrow."

"Ah!" cried Frank excitedly.

"Yes; we had news this morning by the messenger who brought the royal despatches. The colonel had a brief letter. Get leave to go out to-morrow, and come with me."

"Yes, where?"

"We'll try and meet the escort, and see your father, even if we cannot speak."

"Oh!" ejaculated Frank; and, utterly worn out with anxiety and want of proper food, he reeled, a deathly feeling of sickness seized him, and his eyes closed.

When he opened them again he was lying upon the captain's couch, with his temples and hair wet, and he looked wonderingly in the face of his father's friend.

"Better?"

"Yes; what is it? Oh my head! the room's going round."

"Drink," said the captain. "That's better. It will soon go off."

"But why did I turn like that?"

"From weakness, lad. Shall I send for the doctor?"

"No, no," cried Frank, struggling up into a sitting position. "I'm better now. How stupid of me!"

"Nature telling you she has been neglected, my lad. You have not eaten much lately?"

"I couldn't."

"Nor slept well?"

"Horribly. I could only lie and think."

"And you have not been outside the walls?"

"No; I have felt ashamed to be seen, and as if people would look at me and say, 'His father is one of the prisoners.'"

"All signs of weakness, as the doctor would say. Now you want to be strong enough to go with me to-morrow—mounted?"

"Of course."

"Then try and do something to make yourself fit. I shouldn't perhaps be able to catch you as I did just now if you fainted on horseback, and in a London crowd; for we should be under the wing of the troops sent to meet the prisoners coming in."

"I shall be all right, sir," said the boy firmly.

"Go and have a walk in the fresh air, then, now."

"Must I?" said Frank dismally.

"If you wish to go with me."

"Where shall I go, then?"

"Anywhere; go and have a turn in the Park."

"What, go and walk up and down there, where people may know me!"

"Yes, let them. Don't take any notice. Try and amuse yourself. Be a boy again, or a man if you like, and do as Charles the Second used to do: go and feed the ducks. Well, what's the matter? there's no harm in feeding ducks, is there?"

"Oh no," said the boy confusedly; "I'll go;" and he hurried out.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

FEEDING THE DUCKS AGAIN.

"Go and feed the ducks," said Frank to himself, as he obtained some biscuits, and, in his readiness to obey his elder's wishes, went slowly toward the water-side; "how little he knows what a deal that means;" and, almost unconsciously, he strolled on down to the side of the canal, thinking of Mr George Selby and Drew, and of the various incidents connected with his walks out there, which, with the duel, seemed in his disturbed state of mind to have taken place years—instead of months— ago, when he was a boy.

He went slowly on, forgetting all about the biscuits, till he noticed that several of the water-fowl were swimming along, a few feet from the bank, and watching him with inquiring eyes.

He stopped short, turned to face the water, which was sparkling brightly in the sunshine, and taking a biscuit out of his capacious "salt-box pocket," he began to break it in little bits and throw them to the birds.

"Ah, what a deal has happened since we were here doing this that day," thought the boy; and his mind went back to his first meeting with Drew's father, the invitation to the dinner, and the scene that evening in the tavern.

"Please give me a bit, good gentleman," said a whining voice at his elbow. "I'm so hungry, please, sir. Arn't had nothing since yes'day morning, sir."

Frank turned sharply, to see that a ragged-looking street boy, whom he had passed lying apparently asleep on the grass a few minutes before, was standing close by, hugging himself with his arms, and holding his rags as if to keep them from slipping off his shoulders. He wore a dismally battered cocked hat which was a size too large for him, and came down to his ears over his closely cropped hair. His shirt was dirty and ragged, and his breeches and shoes were of the most dilapidated character, the latter showing, through the gaping orifices in front, his dirty, mud-encrusted toes.

Frank saw all this at a glance; but the poor fellow's face took his attention most, for it was pitiable, thin, and careworn, and would have been white but for the dirt with which it was smudged.

Frank looked at him with sovereign contempt.

"So hungry that you can't stoop down by the water's edge to wash your filthy face and hands, eh?"

"Wash, sir?" said the lad piteously; "what's the good? Don't matter for such as me. You don't know."

"Miserable wretch!" thought Frank; "what a horribly degraded state for a poor fellow to be in." Then aloud: "Here, which will you have—the biscuit or this?"

He held out a coin that would have bought many biscuits in one hand, the broken piece in the other.

"Biscuit, please, gentleman," whined the lad. "I am so hungry, you don't know."

"Take both," said Frank; and they were snatched from his hands.

"Oh, thank you, gentleman," whined the lad, as some one passed. "You don't know what trouble is;" and he began to devour the biscuit ravenously.

"Not know what trouble is!" cried Frank scornfully. "Do you think fine clothes will keep that out? Oh, I don't know that I wouldn't change places with you, after all."

"Poor old laddie!" said the youth, looking at him in a peculiar way, and with his voice seeming changed by the biscuit in his mouth; "and I thought he was enjoying himself, and feeding the ducks, and not caring a bit."

"What!" exclaimed Frank wildly.

"Don't you know me, Frank?"

"Drew!"

"Then the disguise is as right as can be. Keep still. Nonsense! Don't try to shake hands. Stand at a distance. There's no knowing who may be watching you. Give me another biscuit. I am hungry, really. There, go on feeding the ducks. How useful they are. Sort of co-conspirators, innocent as they look. I'll sit down behind you as if watching you, and I can talk when there's no one near."

Frank obeyed with his face working, and Drew Forbes threw himself on the grass once more.

"Drew, old fellow, you make me feel sick."

"What, because I look such a dirty wretch?"

"No, no. I'm ill and faint, and it's horrible to see you like this."

"Yes; not much of a macaroni now."

"We—we were afraid you were dead."

"No; but I had a narrow squeak for my life. I and two more officers escaped and rode for London. I only got here yesterday, dressed like this, hoping to see you; but you did not come out."

"No; this is the first time I have been here since you left. How is the wound?"

"Oh, pooh! that's well enough. Bit stiff, that's all. I say, is it all real?"

"What?"

"Me being here dressed like this."

"Oh, it's horrible."

"Not it. Better than being chopped short, or hung. I am glad you've come. I want to talk to you about your father and mine. They'll be in town to-morrow, I should say."

"Yes, I know. Tell me, what are you going to do?"

"Do? We're going to raise the mob, have a big riot, and rescue them. I want to know what you can do to help."

"We are trying to help in another way," said Frank excitedly.

"How?"

"Petitioning the King through the Prince."

"No good," said Drew shortly. "There's no mercy to be had. Our way is the best."

"But tell me: you are in a terrible state—you want money."

"No. We've plenty, and plenty of friends in town here. Don't think we're beaten, my good fellow."

Frank's supply of biscuit came to an end, and to keep up appearances he began to delude the ducks by throwing in pebbles.

"There's one of those spy fellows coming, Frank," said Drew suddenly. "Don't look round, or take any notice."

Frank's heart began to beat, as he thrust his hand into his pocket, for his fingers to come in contact with one little fragment of biscuit passed over before, and, waiting till he heard steps close behind him, he threw the piece out some distance, and stood watching the rush made by the water-fowl, one conveying the bit off in triumph.

Frank searched in vain for more, and he was regretting that he had been so liberal in his use of the provender, and racking his brains for a means of keeping up the conversation without risk to his companion, when about half a biscuit fell at his feet, and he seized it eagerly.

"He's pretty well out of hearing, Frank; but speak low. I don't want to be taken. You'd better move on a bit, and stop again. I'll go off the other way after that spy, and work round and come back. You go and sit down a little way from the bushes yonder, and I'll creep in behind, and lie there, so as to talk to you. Got a book?"

"No," said Frank sadly.

"Haven't you a pocket-book?"

"Oh yes."

"Well, that will do. Take it out after you've sat down, and pretend to make a sketch of the trees across the water."

"Ah, I shouldn't have thought of that."

"You would if you had been hunted as I have. There, don't look round. I'm off."

"But if we don't meet again, Drew? I want to do something to help you."

"Then do as I have told you," said the lad sharply; and he shuffled away, limping slightly, while, after standing as if watching the water-fowl for about ten minutes, and wondering the while whether he was being watched, Frank strolled on very slowly in the opposite direction, making for a clump of trees and bushes about a couple of hundred yards away, feeling that this must be right, and upon reaching the end, going on about half its length, and then carelessly seating himself on the grass about ten feet from the nearest bush.

After a short time, passed in wondering whether Drew would be able to get hidden behind him unseen, he took out his pocket-book and pencil, and with trembling fingers began to sketch. Fortunately he had taken lessons at the big Hampshire school, and often received help from his mother, who was clever with her pencil, so that to give colour to his position there he went on drawing, a tiny reproduction of the landscape across the water slowly growing up beneath his pencil-point. But it was done almost unconsciously, for he was trembling with dread lest his object there should be divined and result in Andrew being captured, now that a stricter watch than ever was kept about the surroundings of the Palace.

One moment he felt strong in the belief that no one could penetrate his old companion's disguise; the next he was shuddering in dread of what the consequences would be, and wishing that Drew had not come. At the same time he was touched to the heart at the lad running such a risk when he had escaped to safety among his London friends. For Drew had evidently assumed this pitiful disguise on purpose to come and see him. There could be no other object than that of trying to see his friend. Would he be able to speak to him again?

"I say, they're keeping a sharp look-out, Franky," came from behind in a sharp whisper, making him start violently.

"Don't do that. Go on sketching," whispered Drew; and Frank devoted himself at once to his book. "That fellow went on, and began talking to another. I saw him, but I don't think he saw me. I say, I shall have to go soon."

"Yes, yes; I want you to stay, Drew, but pray, pray escape!"

"Why?"

"Because I wouldn't for worlds have you taken."

There was a few moments' pause, and then Drew spoke huskily.

"Thank ye," he said. "I was obliged to come and see you again. I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry I didn't shake hands with you, Frank."

"Ah!—I'll slip back to where you are and shake hands now," cried the boy excitedly.

"No, no; pray don't move. It's too risky; I don't want to be caught. I must be with those who are going to rescue my father and yours to-morrow.—Think that you are shaking hands with me. Now, there's my hand, old lad. That's right. Yes, I can believe we have hold again. Perhaps I shall never see you again, Franky; perhaps I shall be taken. If I am, please think that I always looked upon you as a brother, and upon Lady Gowan as if I were her son."

"Yes, Drew, yes, Drew," whispered Frank in a choking voice, as he bent over his open book.

"Give my love to dear Lady Gowan, and tell her how I feel for her in her great trouble."

"Yes, yes, I will," whispered Frank, as he shaded away vigorously at his sketch, but making some curious hatchings.

"Tell her that there'll be a hundred good, true men making an effort to save Sir Robert to-morrow, and we'll do it. I'd like you to come and help, but you mustn't. It would be too mad."

"No. I'll come," whispered the boy excitedly.

"No, you will not come," said Drew. "You can't, for you don't know when and where it will be."

"Then tell me," whispered Frank, with his face very close to his paper.

"I'd die first, old lad," came back. "Lady Gowan has suffered enough from what has happened. She shan't have another trouble through me. I tried to get you away; but I'm sorry now, for her sake. You stop and take care of her. Your father said—"

"Yes, what did he say?"

"He told me it was his only comfort in his troubles to feel that his son was at his mother's side."

"Ah!" sighed Frank; and then he uttered a warning, "Hist! Some one coming;" and he gazed across the water and went on sketching, for he had suddenly become aware of some one coming from his left over the grass, and he trembled lest his words should have been heard, for every one now seemed likely to be a spy.

It was hard work to keep from looking up, and to appear engrossed with his task; but he mastered the desire, even when he was conscious of the fresh-comer being close at hand, his shadow cast over the paper, and he knew that he was passing between him and the clump of shrubs.

Then whoever it was paused, and Frank felt that he was looking down at the drawing, while the boy's heart went on thumping heavily.

"He must have heard me speaking," he thought; and then he gave a violent start and looked up, for a voice said:

"Well done, young gentleman. Quite an artist, I see."

The speaker's face was strange, and he had keen, searching eyes, which seemed as if they were reading the boy's inmost thoughts as he faltered:

"Oh no, only a little bit of a sketch."

Then he started again, for there was the sound of a blow delivered by a stick, a sharp cry, a scuffle, and Drew bounded out from the bushes, followed by Frank's old enemy whom he had trapped at the house. But Drew would have escaped if it had not been for the stranger, who, acting in collusion with Bagot, caught the lad by the arm and held him.

Frank had sprung to his feet, to stand white and trembling, and drew sword ready to interfere on behalf of his old companion, who, however, began to act his part admirably.

"Don't you hit me," he whined; "don't you hit me."

"You young whelp!" cried Bagot. "What are you doing here?"

"I dunno," whined Drew. "Must go somewheres. Only came to lie down and have a snooze."

"A lie, sir, a lie. I've had my eye upon you for hours. I saw you here last night."

"That you didn't, sir. It was too cold, and I went away 'fore eight o'clock."

"Lucky for you that you did, or you'd have found yourself in the round house."

"Don't you hit me; don't you hit me," cried Drew, writhing.

"I'll cut you to pieces," snarled Bagot. "I watched him," he continued to the man who held the lad in a firm grip in spite of his struggles to get away. "He was sneaking up to this young gentleman, begging and trying to pick his pocket."

"That I wasn't," whined Drew. "I was orfle 'ungry, and he was pitching away cake things to the ducks. I only arksed for a bit because I was so 'ungry—didn't I, sir?"

"Yes," said Frank hoarsely. "I gave him a biscuit."

"Then what's this?" said the man who held him, wrenching open Drew's hand, in spite of a great show of resistance, and seizing a shilling. "You managed to rob him, then."

"No, no," said Frank. "I gave him the money."

That disarmed suspicion.

"But he'd sneaked round behind you. I watched him, and found him here where he had crawled, and lay pretending to be asleep. I wager you had not seen him."

"No," said Frank sharply. "I had not seen him since he came up to beg;" and the boy drew a breath of relief, for he had shivered with the dread that the man was going to ask him if he knew that Drew was there.

"Better take your shilling back, sir," said the man.

"I? No," said Frank proudly. "Let the poor, shivering wretch go. He wants it badly enough."

"Then thank your stars the young gentleman speaks for you," said Bagot sharply. "Off with you, and don't you show your face this way again."

"Don't you hit me then," whimpered Drew. "Don't you hit me;" and he limped off, repeating the words as he went, while Frank stood looking after him, feeling as if he could not stir a step.

"That was a clever trick of yours, young gentleman," said Bagot, with a broad grin. "But I don't bear any malice. King's service, sir. You see, I can take care of you as well as watch."

"Yes. Thank you," said Frank coldly; and with a sigh of relief he tore the leaf bearing the sketch out of his pocket-book, and then turned cold, for he felt that he had made a false move. The other man was watching him.

"Spoiled my sketch," he said, with a half laugh. "Made me start so that my pencil went right across it."

Fortunately this was quite true, and it carried conviction.

"Don't tear it up, sir," said the second man respectfully. "I should like to take that home to please my little girl. She'd know the place. She often comes to feed the ducks."

The man was human, then, after all, even if he was a spy, and Frank's heart softened to him a little as he gave him the sketch.

"Thank ye, sir," said the man, who looked pleased; and the lad stopped and listened to him, feeling that it was giving Drew time to get away.

"I can tell her I saw a young gentleman drawing it. She's quite clever with her pencil, sir; but she can't, of course, touch this."

Frank hesitated for a few moments as to which way he should go, inclination drawing him after his friend; but wisdom suggested the other direction, and he strolled off without looking back till he could do so in safety, making the excuse of throwing in the remains of the biscuit Drew had returned to the ducks.

He had been longing intensely to look back before and see if the men were following his friend; but to his great relief he found that they were not very far from where he now stood.

Then he walked quietly back toward the Palace gates with his head beginning to buzz with excitement at the news he had heard.

"They're going to rescue him to-morrow," he thought.

"Ought I to tell Captain Murray? No; impossible. He might feel that it was his duty to warn the King. It would be giving him a task to fight against duty and friendship. I dare not even tell my mother, for fear the excitement might do her harm. No, I must keep it to myself, and I shall be there—I shall be there."

He did not see where he was going, for in his imagination he was on horseback, looking on at a mighty, seething crowd making a bold rush at the cavalry escort round some carriages. But he was brought to himself directly after by a bluff voice saying:

"Don't run over me, Frank, my lad. But that's right; the walk has brought some colour into your cheeks."

The colour deepened, as the speaker went on:

"I've arranged for a quiet horse to be ready with mine, my lad, and I have a good hint or two as to where we ought to go so as to be in the route. It will not be till close on dusk, though."

"Oh, if I could tell exactly the way they will come, and the time, and let Drew know, it might mean saving my father's life," thought Frank. "I must tell Captain Murray then.

"No, it would not do," he mused; "for if I did, he would not move an inch. How to get the news, and go and find Drew! But where? Ah! I might hear of him from some one at the tavern where they have that club."

"Why, Frank lad, what are you thinking about?" said the captain. "I've been talking to you for ever so long, and you don't answer."

"Oh, Captain Murray," said the boy sadly, "you must know."

"Yes, my lad," said the captain sadly, "of course I know."



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

AT THE LAST MOMENT.

There was not much sleep for the boy that night, for he was in the horns of a terrible dilemma. What should he do? He turned from side to side of his bed, trying to argue the matter out, till his father's fate, his duty to the King and Prince, the natural desire to help, his love for his mother, Captain Murray and his duty to the King and friendship for his brother-officer and companion, were jumbled up in an inextricable tangle with Drew Forbes and the attempt at rescue.

"Oh!" he groaned, as day broke and found him still tossing restlessly upon his pillow; "I often used to tell poor Drew that he was going mad. I feel as if I were already gone, for my head won't work. I can't think straight, just too when I want to be perfectly clear, and able to make my plans."

It would have prostrated a cleverer and more calculating brain than Frank's—one of those wonderful minds which can see an intricate game of chess right forward, the player's own and his adversary's moves in attack or defence—to have calmly mapped out the proper course for the lad through the rocks, shoals, and quicksands which beset his path. As it happened, all his mental struggles proved to be in vain; for, as is frequently the case in life, the maze of difficulties shaped themselves into a broad, even path, along which the boy travelled till the exciting times were past.

To begin with, nature knew when the brain would bear no more; and just at sunrise, when Frank had tried to nerve himself for a fresh struggle by plunging face and a good portion of his head into cold water previous to having a good brisk rub, and then lain down to think out his difficulty once more, unconsciously choosing the best attitude for clear thought, a calm and restful sensation stole over him. One moment he was gazing at the bright light stealing in beside his blind; the next he was in profound mental darkness, wrapped in a deep, restful slumber, which lasted till nearly ten o'clock, when he was aroused by a knocking at his door, and leaped out of bed, confused and puzzled, unable for a few moments to collect his thoughts into a focus and grasp what it meant.

"Yes," he said at last. "What is it?"

"Will you make haste and go across to Lady Gowan's apartments, sir?" said a voice. "She has been very ill all night, and wishes to see you."

"Oh!" groaned Frank to himself. Then aloud: "Yes; come over directly."

He began to dress rapidly, with all the troubles of the night magnified and made worse by the mental lens of reproach through which he was looking at his conduct.

"How can I be such a miserable, thoughtless wretch!" he thought. "How could I neglect everything which might have helped to save my poor father for the sake of grovelling here, and all the time my mother ill, perhaps dying, while I slept, not seeming to care a bit!"

He had a few minutes of hard time beneath the unsparing lashes he mentally applied to himself as he was dressing; and then, ready to sink beneath his load of care, and feeling the while that he ought to have obtained from Captain Murray the route the prisoners would take, and then have found Drew Forbes and told him, so as to render the attempt at rescue easier, he hurried across the first court, and then into the lesser one to his mother's apartments.

"The doctor's with her, sir," whispered the maid.

"How is she now?" asked Frank.

"Dreadfully bad, sir. Pray make haste to her; she asked for you again when the doctor came."

Frank hurried up, to find the quiet physician who attended her and a nurse in the room, while the patient lay with her eyes looking dim, and two hectic spots in her thin cheeks, gazing anxiously at the door.

A faint smile of recognition came upon her lips, and she raised one hand to her son, and laid it upon his head as he sank upon his knees by the bedside.

"Oh, mother darling!" he whispered, in a choking voice, "forgive me for not coming before."

She half closed her eyes, and made a movement of the lips for him to kiss her. Then her eyes closed, as she breathed a weary sigh.

Frank turned in horror to the physician, who bent down and whispered to him.

"Don't be alarmed; it is sleep. She has, I find, been in a terribly excited state, and I have been compelled to administer a strong sedative. She will be calmer when she wakes. Sleep is everything now."

"You are not deceiving me, sir?" whispered Frank.

"No. That is the simple truth," replied the physician, very firmly. "Your mother may wake at any time; but I hope many hours will first elapse. I find that she has expressed an intense longing for you to come to her side, and, as you saw, she recognised you."

"Oh yes, she knew me," said Frank eagerly. "But pray tell me—she is not dying?"

"Lady Gowan is in a very serious condition," replied the doctor; "but I hope she will recover, and—"

"Yes, yes; pray speak out to me, sir," pleaded the boy.

"Her ailment is almost entirely mental; and if the news can be brought to her that the King will show mercy to her husband, I believe that her recovery would be certain."

"Then you think I ought to go at once and try to save my father?"

"No," said the physician gravely. "I know all the circumstances of the case. You can do no good by going. Leave that to your friends—those high in position. Your place is here. Whenever Lady Gowan wakes, she must find you at her bedside. There, I will leave you now. Absolute quiet, mind. Sleep is the great thing. I will come in again in about three hours. The nurse knows what to do."

The physician went out silently, and Frank seated himself by his mother's pillow, to hold the thin hand which feebly clung to his and watch her, thinking the while of how his difficulties had been solved by these last orders, which bound him there like the endorsement of his father's commands to stay by and watch over his mother.

He could think clearly now, and see that much of that which he had desired to do was impossible. Even if he had set one duty aside, that to the Prince, his master, and let his love for and desire to save his father carry all before them, he could see plainly enough that it was not likely that he would have found Drew Forbes. A visit to the tavern club would certainly have resulted in finding that the occupants were dispersed and the place watched by spies. Then, even if he had found Drew, wherever he and his friends were hiding, it was not likely that they would have altered their plans for any information which he could give them. Everything would have been fixed as they thought best, and no change would have been made.

Clearer still came the thought that he had no information to give them further than that the prisoners would probably be brought into London that evening, which way Captain Murray might know, but he would never depart from his duty so far as to supply the information that it might be conveyed to the King's enemies. He was too loyal for that, gladly as he would strive to save his friend.

It was then with a feeling of relief that Frank sat there by his mother's bed, holding her hand, and thinking that he could do no more, while upon the nurse whispering to him that she would be in the next room if wanted, and leaving him alone, he once more sank upon his knees to rest his head against the bed, and prayed long and fervently in no tutored words, but in those which gushed naturally and simply from his breast, that the lives of those he loved might be spared and the terrible tribulation of the present times might pass away.

Hour after hour passed, and the nurse came in and out softly from time to time, nodding to the watcher and smiling her satisfaction at finding her patient still plunged in a sleep, which, as the day went on, grew more and more profound.

Then when alone Frank's thoughts went wandering away along the great north road by which the prisoners must be slowly approaching London, to find their fate. And at such times his thoughts were busy about his mother's friends. What were they doing to try and save his father?

Then his thoughts went like a flash to his meeting with Drew the day before; and his words came full of hope, and sent a feeling of elation through him. The rebels were not beaten, as Drew had said, and there was no doubt about their making a brave effort to rescue the prisoners before they were shut up in gaol.

And in imagination Frank built up what would in all probability be done. Small parties of the Jacobites would form in different places, and with arms hidden gradually converge upon some chosen spot which the prisoners with their escort must pass. Then at a given signal an attack would be made. The escort would be of course very strong; but the Jacobites would be stronger, and in all probability the mob, always ready for a disturbance, would feel sympathy with the unfortunate prisoners, and help the attacking party, or at least join in checking the Guards, resenting their forcing their horses through the crowd which would have gathered; so that the prospects looked very bright in that direction, and the boy felt more and more hopeful.

Twice over the servant came to the door to tell the watcher that first breakfast, and then lunch, was waiting for him in the room below; but he would not leave the bedside, taking from sheer necessity what was brought to him, and then resuming his watch.

The physician came at the end of three hours as he had promised, but stayed only a few minutes.

"Exactly what I wished," he said. "Go on watching and keeping her quiet, and don't be alarmed if she sleeps for many hours yet. I will come in again this afternoon."

Frank resumed his seat by the bed, and then hastily pencilled a few lines to Captain Murray, telling him that it would be impossible to leave the bedside, and sent the note across by the servant, who brought a reply back.

It was very curt and abrupt.

"Of course. I see your position. Sorry, for I should have liked him to see you."

The note stung Frank to the quick.

"He thinks I am trying to excuse myself, when I would give the world to go with him," he muttered.

A glance at the pale face upon the pillow took off some of the bitterness, though, and he resumed his watch while the hours glided by.

At four the physician came again.

"Not awake?" he said; and he touched his patient's pulse lightly, and then softly raised one of Lady Gowan's eyelids, and examined the pupil.

"Nature is helping us, Mr Gowan," he said softly. "But she ought to have awoke by now, sir?"

"I expected that she would have done so; but nothing could be better. She is extremely weak, and if she could sleep like this till to-morrow her brain would be rested from the terrible anxiety from which she is suffering. I will look in once more this evening."

Frank was alone again with his charge, and another hour passed, during which the lad dwelt upon the plans that had been made, and calculated that Captain Murray must be about starting on his mission to meet the escort bringing in the prisoners. And as this idea came to him, Frank sat with his head resting upon his hands, his elbows upon his knees, trying hard to master the bitter sense of disappointment that afflicted him.

"And he will be looking from the carriage window to right and left, trying to make out whether I am there!" he groaned. "Oh, it seems cruel—cruel! and he will not know why I have not come."

But one gleam of hope came here. Captain Murray might find an opportunity to speak with the prisoner, and he would tell him that his son was watching by his suffering mother.

"He will know why I have not come then," Frank said softly; and after an impatient glance at the clock, he began again to think of Drew and his plans for the rescue.

But now, in the face of the precautions which would be taken, this seemed to be a wildly chimerical scheme, one which was not likely to succeed, and he shook his head sadly as a feeling of despair began to close him in like a dark cloud.

He was at his worst, feeling more and more hopeless, as he sat there, with his face buried in his fingers, when a hand was lightly placed upon his head, and starting up it was to find that his mother was awake, and gazing wistfully at him.

He bent over her, and her arms clasped his neck.

"My boy! my boy!" she said faintly; and she drew him to her breast, to hold him there for some moments before saying quickly:

"Have I slept long, dear?"

"Yes, ever since morning, mother."

"What time is it?"

"About half-past five."

"All that time?" she said excitedly. "He must be near now. Frank, my boy, the prisoners were to reach London soon after dark."

"Yes, mother, I know," he said, looking at her wistfully, as he held her hand now to his cheek.

"Is there any news?"

"No, mother, none."

"Oh," she moaned, "this terrible suspense! Frank, my darling, you must not stay here. Have you been with me all the time I have been asleep?"

"Yes, mother, all. You asked for me."

"Yes, my darling, in my selfishness; but you ought to go and get the latest tidings. Frank, it is your duty to be there when your father reaches this weary city. He ought not to be looking in vain for one of those he loves. You must go at once. Do you hear me? It is your duty."

"The doctor said it was my duty to watch by you," said Frank, with his heart beating fast, as he wondered whether Captain Murray had gone.

"With me? Oh, what am I, if your being where he could see you, if only for a moment, would give him comfort in his sore distress!"

"I was going, mother," whispered the boy excitedly. "Captain Murray was going to let me be with him, and he as an officer would have been able to take me right up to the escort."

"Then why are you here? Oh, go—go at once!"

"I was to stay with you, mother, so that you might see me when you awoke," he said huskily, the intense longing to go struggling with the desire to stay.

"Yes, yes, and I have seen you; but I am nothing if we can contrive to give him rest. Go, then, at once."

"But you are not fit to be left."

"I shall not be left," she said firmly. "Quick, Frank. You are increasing my agony every moment that you stay. Oh, my boy, pray, pray go, and then come back and tell me that you have seen him. Go. Take no refusal; fight for a position near him if you cannot get there by praying, and tell him how we are suffering for his sake—how we love him, and are striving to save him. Oh, and I keep you while I am talking, and he must be very near! Quick! Kiss me once and go, and I will lie here and pray that you may succeed."

"You wish it—you command me to go, mother?" he panted.

"Yes, yes, my boy," she cried eagerly; and he bent down over her, pressed his lips to hers, and darted to the door.

"Nurse, nurse!" he said hoarsely, "come and stay with my mother." Then to himself as he rushed down the stairs: "Too late—too late! He must have gone."



CHAPTER FORTY.

ON THE GREAT NORTH ROAD.

The heavy, leaden feeling of despair and disappointment increased as Frank Gowan ran across the courtyard, feeling that it was useless to expect to find Captain Murray, but making for his quarters in the faint hope that he might have been detained, and cudgelling his brains as he ran, to try and find a means of learning the route that the escort would take, so that he might even then try and intercept the prisoners' carriages.

But no idea, not the faintest gleam of a way out of his difficulty helped him; and he felt ready to fling himself down in his misery and despair, as he reached the officers' quarters.

It was like a mockery to him in his agony to see the sentry, who recognised him, draw himself up, and present arms to his old captain's son, and it checked the question he would have asked the man as to when Captain Murray had passed, for he could not speak.

"I must see if he is here," he thought, as he ran up the stairs to the room which had been his prison; and turning the handle of the door, he rushed in and uttered a groan, for the room was, as he had anticipated, empty. But the bedroom door was closed, and he darted to that and flung it open.

"Gone! gone! gone!" he groaned. "What shall I do? Will they take him to the Tower?"

He knew that there was no saying what might be the destination of the prisoners; but he rushed back to the staircase, meaning to go straight to the Tower by some means, and then he stopped short and uttered a half hysterical cry, for there was Captain Murray ascending the stairs.

"Not gone?" he cried.

"No; but I am just off. I wish you could have gone with me, Frank. It would have done your poor father good."

"I am going. She wishes it, and sends me."

"Hah! Quick, then. Back to your room."

"Oh, I'm ready," cried the boy.

"Nonsense! We are going to ride. Your boots and sword, boy. I'll lend you a military cloak."

"But it will be losing time," panted Frank.

"It will be gaining it, my boy. You cannot go through a London mob like that. You are going to ride with soldiers, and you must not look like a page at a levee. Quick!"

"You will wait for me?"

"Of course."

Frank ran to his rooms, drew on his high horseman's boots, buckled on his sword, which had been returned to him, and ran back to where Captain Murray was waiting for him with a cloak over his arm.

"No spurs?" he said. "Never mind. You will have a well-trained horse. I have got passes for two, Frank; and, as it happens, I know the officer of the Horse Guards who is in command of the detachment going to meet the escort, so that we can get close up to the prisoners. Let's see: you do ride?"

"Oh yes; my father taught me long ago, anything—bare-backed often enough."

"Good. I am glad, boy. It was sorry work going without you. But I know why it was. Walk quickly; no time to lose."

He hurried his companion to the stables of the Horse Guards, where a couple of the men were waiting, and a horse was ready saddled.

"Quick!" he said to the men. "I shall want the second charger, after all."

It was rapidly growing dark, and one man lit a lanthorn, while the other clapped the bit between the teeth of a handsome black horse, turned the docile creature in its stall, and then slipped on a heavy military saddle with its high-peak holsters and curb-bit.

Five minutes after they were mounted and making for Charing Cross.

"Which way are we going?" asked Frank, whose excitement increased to a feeling of wild exhilaration, as he felt the beautifully elastic creature between his knees, with a sensation of participating in its strength, and being where he would have a hundred times the chance of getting to speak to his father.

"Up north," said the captain abruptly.

"North? Why not east? They will take him to the Tower."

"No. Steady horse. Walk, walk! Hold yours in, boy. We must go at a slow pace till we get to the top of the lane."

The horses settled down to their walk, almost keeping pace for pace, as the captain said quietly:

"I have got all the information I required. No, they will not take the prisoners to the Tower, but to Newgate."

"Newgate?" cried Frank; "why, that is where the thieves and murderers go."

"Yes," said the captain abruptly. "Look here, Frank. They are not to reach the prison till nine, so we have plenty of time to get some distance out. They will come in by the north road, and I don't think we can miss them."

"Why risk passing them?" said Frank.

"Because, if we intercept the escort on the great north road somewhere beyond Highgate, you will be able to ride back near the carriage in which your father is, and, even if you cannot speak to him, you will see him, and be seen."

"But it will be horrible; I shall look like one of the soldiers guarding him to his cell."

"Never mind what you look like, so long as your father sees that he is not forgotten by those who love him."

The captain ceased speaking, and their horses picked their way over the stones, their hoofs clattering loudly, and making the people they passed turn to stare after the two military-looking cavaliers in cocked hat and horseman's cloak, and with the lower parts of their scabbards seen below to show that they were well armed.

Saint Martin's Church clock pointed to seven as they rode by; and then, well acquainted with the way, the captain made for the north-east, breaking into a trot as they reached the open street where the traffic was small, Frank's well-trained horse keeping step with its stable companion; and by the shortest cuts that could be made they reached Islington without seeing a sign of any unusual excitement, so well had the secret been kept of the coming of the prisoners that night.

"Not much sign of a crowd to meet them, Frank," said the captain, as they went now at a steady trot along the upper road. "Pretty good proof that we are in time."

"Why, what is a good sign?" asked Frank.

"So few people about. If the prisoners and their escort had passed, half Islington would have been out gossiping at their doors."

"Suppose they have come some other way?"

"Not likely. This was to be their route, and at half-past eight two troops of Horse Guards will march up the road to meet the escort at Islington. That will bring out the crowd."

Frank winced as if he had suddenly felt the prick of a knife, so sharp was the spasm which ran through him. For the moment he had quite forgotten the prospect of an attempt at rescue; now the mention of the soldiery coming to meet the unhappy prisoners and strengthen the escort brought all back, and with it the questioning thought:

"Would Drew's friends make the venture when so strong a force would be there?"

"No—yes—no—yes," his heart seemed to beat; then the rattle of the horses' hoofs took it up—no, yes, no, yes; and now it seemed to be the time to tell Captain Murray of the attempt that was to be made, or rather that was planned.

"And if I tell him he will feel that it is his duty as a soldier to warn the officer in command of the escort, and he will take them at a sharp trot round by some other way. Oh, I can't tell him! It would be like robbing my father of his last chance."

Frank felt more and more that his lips were sealed; and as to the danger which Murray would incur—well, he was a soldier well mounted, and he must run the risk.

"As I shall," thought Frank. "It will be no worse for him than for me. It is not as if I were going to try and save myself. I'll stand by him, weak boy as I am. Or no; shall I not be escaping with my father?"

He shook his head the next moment, and felt that he could not be of the rescuing party. He must still be the Prince's page, and return to the Palace to bear his mother the news of the escape.

"For he will—he must escape," thought the boy. "Drew's friends will be out in force to-night, and I shall be able to go back and tell her that he is safe."

As they rode on through the pleasant dark night Frank thought more of the peril into which his companion was going, and hesitated about telling him, so that he might be warned; but again he shrank from speaking, for fear that it might mean disaster to Drew's projects.

"And he has his father to save as well as mine. I can't warn him," he concluded. "I run the risk as well as he."

He felt better satisfied the next minute, as he glanced sidewise at the bold, manly bearing of the captain, mounted on the splendid, well-trained charger.

"Captain Murray can take care of himself," he thought; and the feelings which were shut within his breast grew into a sensation of excitement that was almost pleasurable.

"Quite countrified out here, Frank," said the captain suddenly, as the road began to ascend; and after passing Highbury the houses grew scarce, being for the most part citizens' mansions. "Don't be down-hearted, my lad. The law is very curious. It is a strong castle for our defence, but full of loopholes by which a man may escape."

"Escape?" cried Frank excitedly. "You think he may escape?"

"I hope so, and I'd give something now if my oaths were not taken, and I could do something in the way of striking a blow for your father's liberty."

For a few minutes the boy felt eagerly ready to confess all he knew; but the words which had raised the desire served also to check it. "If my oaths were not taken," Captain Murray had said; and he was the very soul of honour, and would not break his allegiance to his King.

"My father did," thought the boy sadly. Then he brightened. "No," he thought, "the King broke it, and set him free by banishing him from his service."

"How do you get on with your horse, lad?—Walk." The horses changed their pace at the word. The hill was getting steep.

"Oh, I get on capitally. It's like sitting in an easy-chair. I haven't been on a horse for a year."

"Then you learned to ride well, Frank. Find the advantage of having your boots, though. Fancy a ride like this in silk stockings and shoes!—You ought to go into the cavalry some day."

Frank sighed.

"Bah! Don't look at the future as being all black, boy. Stick to Hope, the lady who carries the anchor. One never knows what may turn up."

"No, one never knows what may turn up," cried the boy excitedly; and then he checked himself in dread lest his companion should read his thoughts respecting the rescue. But the captain's next words set him at rest.

"That's right, my lad. Try and keep a stout heart. Steep hill this. Do you know where we are?"

"Only that we are on the great north road."

"Yes. When we are on the top of this hill, we shall be in the village of Highgate; and if it was daylight, we could see all London if we looked back, and the country right away if we looked forward. I propose to stop at the top of the hill and wait."

"Yes," said Frank eagerly.

"Perhaps go on for a quarter of a mile, so as to be where we are not observed."

The horses were kept at a walking pace till the village was reached, and here a gate was stretched across, and a man came out to take the toll, Frank noticing that he examined them keenly by the light of a lanthorn.

"Any one passed lately—horsemen and carriages?" said the captain quietly.

The man chuckled.

"Yes, a couple of your kidney," said the man. "You're too late."

A pang shot through Frank, and he leaned forward.

"Too late? What do you mean, sir?" cried the captain sharply; and, as he spoke, he threw back his horseman's cloak, showing his uniform slightly.

"Oh, I beg your worships' pardon. I took you for gentlemen of the road."

"What, highwaymen?"

"Yes, sir. A couple of them went by not ten minutes ago. But I don't suppose they'll try to stop you. They don't like catching Tartars. Be as well to have your pistols handy, though."

"Thank you for the hint," said the captain, and they rode on.

"What do you say, Frank?" said the captain. "Shall we go any farther? It would be an awkward experience for you if we were stopped by highwaymen. Shall we stop?"

"Oh, we cannot stop to think about men like that," said Frank excitedly.

"Not afraid, then?"

"I'm afraid we shall not meet the prisoners," said the boy sadly.

"Forward, then. But unfasten the cover of your holsters. You will find loaded pistols there, and can take one out if we are stopped—I mean if any one tries to stop us. But," he added grimly, "I don't think any one will."

At another time it would have set the boy trembling with excitement; but his mind was too full of the object of their expedition, and as the horses paced on the warning about the gentlemen who infested the main roads in those days was forgotten, so that a few minutes later it came as a surprise to the boy when a couple of horsemen suddenly appeared from beneath a clump of trees by the roadside, came into the middle of the road, and barred their way.

"Realm?" said one of the men sharply.

"Keep off, or I fire," cried Captain Murray.

The two mounted men reined back on the instant, and, pistol in hand, the captain and Frank went on at a walk.

"I don't think—nay, I'm sure—that those men are not on the road, Frank," said the captain quietly. "That was a password. Realm. Can they be friends of the prisoners sent forward as scouts?"

"Do you think so?" said Frank.

"Yes," replied the captain thoughtfully; "and if they are, we are quite right. The prisoners have not passed, and I should not wonder if there were an attempt made to rescue them before they reach town."

Frank's head began to buzz, and he nipped his horse so tightly that the animal broke into a trot.

"Steady! Walk," cried the captain; and the next minute he drew rein, to sit peering forward into the darkness, listening for the tramp of horses, which ought to have been heard for a mile or two upon so still a night.

"Can't hear them," he said in a disappointed tone. "But we will not go any farther."

At that moment Frank's horse uttered a loud challenging neigh, which was answered from about a hundred yards off, and this was followed by another, and another farther away still.

"There they are," said the captain, "halting for a rest to the horses before trotting down. Forward!"

They advanced again; but had not gone far before figures were dimly seen in the road, and directly after a stern voice bade them halt.

The captain replied with a few brief words, and they rode forward, to find themselves facing a vedette of dragoons, a couple of whom escorted them to where, upon an open space, in the middle of which was a pond, a strong body of cavalry was halted, the greater part of the men dismounted; but about twenty men were mounted, and sat with drawn swords, surrounding a couple of carriages, each with four horses— artillery teams—and the drivers in their places ready to start at a moment's notice.



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

THE ATTEMPT AT RESCUE.

Frank's eyes took all this in, and then turned dim with the emotion he felt, and for a few moments everything seemed to swim round him. His horse, however, needed no guiding; it kept pace with its companion, and the lad's emotional feeling passed off as he found himself in presence of the officer in command of the escort and his subordinates, a warm greeting taking place between Captain Murray and the principal officer, an old friend.

"Don't seem regular, Murray; but with this note from the Prince, I suppose I shall be held clear if you have come to help the prisoners escape," said the officer lightly.

"Escape!" said Captain Murray sharply.

"No, no; nonsense, old fellow," said the dragoon officer merrily. "Of course I was bantering you."

"Yes, I know," said Captain Murray quickly; "but we were stopped by a couple of mounted men a quarter of a mile back."

"Highway men?"

"I thought so at first; but they challenged us for a password."

"Well! These fellows work hand and glove."

"No," said Captain Murray, "I feel sure they were scouts, ridden forward to get touch with you, and then go back and give warning."

"What for? Whom to? You don't think it means an attempt to rescue?"

"I do," said Murray firmly.

"Thanks for the warning, old fellow," said the officer through his teeth. "Well, mine are picked men, and my instructions are that a strong detachment will be sent out to meet us, and vedettes planted all along the road, to fall in behind us as we pass. Pity too. What madness!"

Frank's heart sank as he heard every word, while his attention was divided between the two dark carriages with their windows drawn up, and he sat wondering which held his father.

"Yes, madness," said the captain sadly. "I shall be very glad when my job's at an end," said the dragoon officer. "It's miserable work."

"Horrible!" replied Murray; and then he turned to Frank. "Hold my rein for a few moments," he said; and, dismounting, he walked away with the officers, to stand talking for a few minutes, while, as Frank sat holding his companion's horse, and watching the well-guarded carriages, a distant neigh and the stamping of horses told of a strong detachment guarding the rear.

"If I only dared ride up to the carriages," thought the boy; and he felt that he did dare, only that it would be useless, for without permission the dragoons would not let him pass.

But a light broke through the mental darkness of despair directly, for Murray came back with the officer in command, a stern, severe-looking man, but whose harsh, commanding voice softened a little as he laid one hand on the horse's neck, and held out his other to the rider.

"I did not know who you were, Mr Gowan. My old friend, Captain Murray, has just told me. Shake hands, my lad. I am glad to know the brave son of a gallant soldier. Don't think hardly of me for doing my duty sternly as a military man should. I ought perhaps to send you both back," he continued in a low tone; "but if you and Captain Murray like to ride by the door of the first carriage, you can, and I will instruct the officer and men not to hinder any reasonable amount of conversation that may be held."

"God bless you!" whispered Frank, in a choking voice.

"Oh, don't say anything, my boy. Only give me your word, not as a soldier, but as a soldier's son, that you will do nothing to help either of the prisoners to escape."

"Yes, I give you my word," said Frank quickly. He would have given anything to be near his father and speak to him for a few minutes.

"That will do.—Murray, we shall go on at a sharp trot; but you are both well mounted, I see." Then he said in an undertone: "I don't believe they will venture anything when they see how strong we are. If the rascals do, I shall make a dash, standing at nothing; but at the first threatenings get the boy away. My instructions are that the prisoners are not to escape—alive!"

"I understand," said Captain Murray; and he mounted his horse.

The next minute an order was given in a low tone; it was passed on, and the men sprang to their saddles. Then another order, "Draw swords!" There was a single note from a trumpet; and as Frank and Captain Murray sat ready, the officer in command led them himself, and placed one at each door of the first carriage, a dragoon easing off to right and left to make place for them.