Frank's hand was on the glass directly, and the window was let down.

"Father!" he cried in a low, deep voice, which was nearly drowned by the trampling, crashing of wheels, and jingle of accoutrements, but heard within; and it was answered by a faint cry of astonishment, and the rattle of fetters, as two hands linked together appeared at the window.

"Frank, my dear boy! you here?"

The boy could not answer, but leaned over toward the carriage with his hand grasped between his father's.

"Hah! this is a welcome home!" cried Sir Robert cheerily. "Gentlemen, my son."

"There's Captain Murray at the other window," gasped out Frank at last.

"Ah! more good news," said Sir Robert. "Murray, my dear old fellow, this is good of you."

The prisoner's voice sounded husky, as he turned his head to the right in the darkness.

"I can't shake hands even if you wished to, for we are doubly fettered now."

"Gowan, I'm glad to meet you again," said the captain hoarsely.

"God bless you, old friend! I know you are. I see now; you brought Frank here to meet me. Like you, old fellow. There, I cannot talk to you. But you know what I feel."

"Yes. Talk to your boy," cried Murray. "Quick, while you can. The order to trot will come directly."

"Yes. Thanks," said Sir Robert; and he turned back to his son, who clung to his hands. "Quick, Frank boy. Your mother—well?"

"Very, very ill. Heart-broken."

"Hah!" groaned Sir Robert.

"But, father, these handcuffs? Surely you are not—"

"Yes, yes. I'm a dangerous fellow now, my boy. We are all chained hand and foot like the worst of criminals, my friends and I."

"Oh!" groaned Frank.

"Bah! Only iron," said Sir Robert bitterly. "Never mind them now. Tell me of your mother. Are you still at the Palace?"

"Yes; the Princess—the Prince—will not hear of our leaving, and—"

Then a note from a trumpet rang out, the horses sprang forward at a sharp trot, and the dragoon on Frank's left changed his sword to his left hand, so as to place his right on the rein of the boy's charger, though it was hardly needed, the well-trained horse bearing off a little to avoid injury from the wheel, but keeping level with the window, so that from time to time, though conversation was impossible, father and son managed to bridge the space between them and touch hands.

It was fortunate for the lad that he was mounted upon a trained cavalry charger, for he had nothing to do but keep his seat, his mount settling down at once to the steady military trot side by side with the horse next to it, and keeping well in its distance behind the horse in front, so that the rider was able to devote all his attention to the occupant of the carriage, who leaned forward with his head framed in the darkness of the window, as if pictured in the sight of his son, possibly for the last time, for in those hours Sir Robert Gowan had not the slightest doubt as to what his fate would be.

On his side, Frank sat in his saddle watching his father's dimly seen face, but ready to start and glance in any direction from which a fresh sound was heard.

The first time was on reaching the turnpike gate, where the toll-taker seemed disposed to hesitate about letting the advance guard pass. The result was an outcry, which sent Frank's heart with a leap toward his lips, for he felt certain that the attack had commenced. But the foremost men dismounted, seized the gate, lifted it off its hook hinges, and cast it aside, the troops and carriages thundered through, and made the people of Highgate village come trooping out in wonder to see what this invasion of their quiet meant.

Then the descent of the hill commenced, with the heavy old-fashioned carriages swaying on their C-springs; but no slackening of speed took place, and the artillerymen hurried their horses along, as if the load they drew were some heavy gun or a waggon full of ammunition.

Twice over Frank gazed at the foremost carriage in alarm, so nearly was it upset in one of the ruts of the ill-kept road; but the rate at which they were going saved it, and they thundered along without accident to where the gradient grew less steep.

There was very little traffic on the road at that time of the night, and not many people about, while before those who were startled by the noise of the passing troops had time to come out the prisoners had gone by.

Holloway and Highbury were passed, and Islington reached, but no sign of an attempt at rescue caught Frank's anxious eyes; neither was there any appearance of fresh troops till the head of the escort turned down the road which entered the city at the west end of Cheapside. But here the boy started, for they passed between two outposts, a couple of dragoons facing them on either side of the road, sitting like statues till the whole of the escort had passed, when they turned in after it, four abreast, and brought up the rear, but some distance in front of the rear guard.

At the end of another fifty yards two more couples were seen, and at the end of every similar interval four more dragoons turned in at the rear, strengthening the escort, while it was evident that they had previously cleared the road of all vehicles, turning them into the neighbouring ways, so that the cortege was enabled to continue its progress at the same steady military trot as they had commenced with on leaving Highgate.

Again and again Frank, now growing breathless, had hoped that the walking pace would once more be renewed, so as to afford him a chance to speak to his father; but he wished in vain, for, except at two sharp turnings, the whole body of dragoons swept along at the sharp trot, and without change, saving that as London was neared the men flanking the carriages were doubled.

But though no sign of rescue caught Frank's eyes, he saw that the stationing of the dragoons to keep the way and the turning of the traffic out of the road had had their effect; for at every step the collection of people along the sides and at the windows increased, till, when the road changed to a busy London street, there was quite a crowd lining the sides.

"There will be no rescue," sighed the lad; and he turned from sweeping the sides of the street to gaze sadly at his father, whose face he could now see pretty plainly, as they passed one of the dismal street lamps which pretended in those days to light the way.

He could see that, brief as the time had been since he last saw his father, his countenance had sadly altered. There was a stern, careworn look in his eyes, and he looked older, and as if he had been exposed to terrible hardships. He noted too that he did not seem to have had the opportunity given him of attending to his person, but had been treated with the greatest of severity.

The lad's gloomy musings on the aspect of the face which beamed lovingly upon him, the eyes seeming to say, "Don't be down-hearted, boy!" were suddenly brought to an end by a check in their progress, for the advance guard, from being a hundred yards ahead, had by degrees shortened the space to fifty, twenty, and ten yards, and finally was only the front of the column. But still they had advanced at a trot, and the officer in command sent orders twice over for the vanguard to increase their distance.

"Tell him I can't," said the officer in front. "It can only be done by riding over the people."

And now the men stationed to keep the way had utterly failed, the people having crowded in from the side streets north of Saint Martin's-le-Grand till the pairs of dragoons were hemmed in, and in spite of several encounters with the crowd they were forced to remain stationary.

The check that came was the announcement that the trot could no longer be continued, and, perforce, the escort advanced at a walk; while, as Frank glanced round for a moment, it suddenly struck him that, save at the windows of the houses, there was not a woman to be seen, the crowd consisting of sturdy-looking men.

The lad had no eyes for the crowd, though. The relapse into a walk had given him the opportunity for grasping his father's hand again, and Sir Robert said to him hurriedly:

"My dearest love to your mother, Frank lad. Tell her, whatever happens, I have but one thought, and that it is for her, that we may meet in happier times."

"Meet in happier times" rang through Frank like a death-knell, for he grasped what his father meant, and tried to speak some words of comfort, but they would not come. Even if they had, they would have been drowned by a tremendous cheer which arose from the crowd and went rolling onward.

"The wretches!" muttered Frank; and he turned to look round, with his eyes flashing his indignation. Then, as the cheer went rolling away forward, he repeated his words aloud, unconscious that they would be heard.

"The wretches! It is not a sight."

"They're a-cheering of 'em, sir," said the dragoon at his elbow, "not hooting 'em, poor fellows!"

Frank darted a grateful look in the man's eyes, and his heart leaped with excitement as the light flashed upon him. It was a manoeuvre, and there would be an attempt to rescue, after all.

"I believe we're in for a row, sir," continued the man, leaning over to him and speaking in a low voice. "Strikes me the best thing for you to do would be to step into the carriage to your friend before the fight begins: I'll hold your horse."

"I!" said Frank sharply. "I wouldn't be such a cur."

"Well said, youngster. Then you try and stick by me. We shall be in the thick of it, and nobody shall hurt you if I can help it."

"Do—do you think, then, that there will be trouble?"

"Yes, for some of us, sir," said the man. "They mean to try and get the prisoners, and the attack will be here."

Frank was unconscious of a movement behind him, till a horseman forced his way in between him and the dragoon, and Captain Murray said sharply:

"Try and ease off, my man."

"Not to be done, sir," replied the dragoon.

"There's going to be an attempt at rescue, Frank," whispered the captain. "Shake hands with your father before we are forced away."

At that moment word was passed along from the rear, running from man to man as they still kept on at a slow walk:

"Flats of your swords; drive them back."

The next minute, just as a fresh cheer was being started, the trumpet rang out behind "Trot!" and the men put spurs to their horses, and dashed on, driving a road through the crowd; and, amidst a savage yelling and hooting which took the place of the hearty cheer for the prisoners, the escort literally forced their way for another fifty yards, the men in advance striking to right and left with the flats of their heavy cavalry swords.

But it was soon evident that they were slackening speed, and the trumpet rang out again, but with an uncertain sound, for it was nearly drowned by the angry yelling which arose. The command was gallop, but the execution of the order was walk, and a minute later the whole escort came to a stand, literally wedged in, with the frightened horses standing shivering and snorting, only one here and there trying to rear and plunge.

"We're caught, Frank lad. Think of nothing but keeping your seat. Take out a pistol, and point it at the first man who tries to drag you from your horse. Ah! I thought so."

Orders were passed along now to the dragoons to defend themselves, for efforts were being made to drag some of the outside men from their horses. Blades flashed on high, cut and point were given, and amidst howlings and savage execrations blood began to flow.

And now, as if by magic, sticks and swords appeared among the crowd; men who had forced their way under the horses' necks, or crept under them, appeared everywhere; and amidst a deafening roar, as the seething mass swayed here and there, Frank caught sight of two men busy just before him, doing something with knives. One of the dragoons noticed it too, and he leaned forward to make a thrust at one of the two; but as he bent over his horse's neck a cudgel was raised, fell heavily across the back of his neck, and he dropped forward, and was only saved from falling by a comrade's help.

"They've cut the traces," said Captain Murray hoarsely. "It's an organised attempt."

As he spoke men were rising amongst them; and, before Frank could realise how it happened, a dozen filled up the little spaces about the carriage, while moment by moment the dragoons were being rendered more helpless. The blows they rained down were parried with swords; they were dragged from their horses; and, in several cases, helped by their fellows, men climbed up behind them, and pinioned their arms.

Organised indeed it seemed to be, for while the greater part of the rioters devoted their attention to rendering the great escort helpless, others kept on forcing their way till they had surrounded the carriages, trusting to their companions to ward off the blows directed at them, but in too many cases in vain.

Frank tried his best to remain near his father, but he was perfectly helpless, and had to go as his horse was slowly forced along, till he was several yards away from the carriage door, at which he could still see the prisoner watching him as if thinking only of the safety of his boy, while the captain was still farther away, using his pistol to keep off attempts made to dismount him.

All attempts at combination were getting useless now for the troops, and it was every man for himself; but the mob did not seem vindictive only when some dragoon struck mercilessly at those who hemmed him in, when the result rapidly followed that he was dragged from his horse and trampled underfoot.

Sir Robert was now shut out from his son's gaze by several men forcing themselves to the carriage door, and Frank was rising in his stirrups to try and catch another glimpse of him, when in the wild swaying about of the crowd his horse was forced nearer to Captain Murray, an eddy sending the captain fortunately back to him, so that their horses made an effort, and came side by side once more, snorting and trembling with fear.

"The men are helpless, Frank lad," said the captain, with his lips to the lad's ear. "They can do nothing more. They are literally wedged in."

"My father?" panted Frank.

"It will be a rescue, my lad."

An exultant roar rose now from the dense mass of people which filled the wide street, and, separated from each other, as well as from their officers, the dragoons ceased to use their swords, while the men round them who held them fast wedged waved their sticks and hats, cheering madly.

"Told you so, sir," shouted some one close behind them; and Frank turned, to see a dragoon, capless and bleeding from a cut on his forehead, sitting calmly enough on his horse.

"Can't do any more, sir," said the man, in answer to a frown from Captain Murray. "They've got my sword. It's the same with all of us. We couldn't move."

The cheering went on, and in the midst of it the carriages began to move, dragged by the crowd, for there was not a soldier within a dozen yards. The clumsy vehicles were being dragged by hand, and the horses led away toward a side street, while the cheering grew more lusty than ever, and then changed into a yell of execration.

"What does that mean?" said Captain Murray excitedly.

"I don't know," said Frank, having hard work to make himself heard. "Let's try and get to the carriage."

"Impossible, my lad," said Captain Murray. "Great heavens! what a gehenna!"

The yelling rose louder than ever from the direction of Cheapside, and directly after the cause was known, for a heavy, ringing volley rang out clear and sharp above the roar of the crowd, and went on reverberating from side to side of the street.

Hardly had it died away when another rattling volley came from the other direction; and in answer to an inquiring look from Frank, Captain Murray placed his lips to the boy's ear.

"The foot guards," he cried; "the mob is between two fires."

The pressure was now terrible, the crowd yielding to the attack from both directions, and yells, wild cries, and groans rose in one horrible mingling, as for a few minutes the seething mass of people were driven together in the centre formed by the carriages; and from where he sat, gazing wildly at the chaos of tossing arms and wild faces, whose owners seemed now to be thinking of nothing but struggling for their lives, Frank could see men climbing over their fellows' heads, dashing in windows, and seeking safety by climbing into the houses, whose occupants in many cases reached down to drag people up out of the writhing mass beneath. In half a dozen places streams could be seen setting into the side streets; and mingled with the attacking party, dragoons of the escort, perfectly helpless, were pressed slowly along, and in every instance with one, sometimes with two men mounted behind them.

Frank caught these things at a glance, while his and the captain's mounts were being slowly forced farther away from the carriages, which were once more stationary, jammed in by the densest portion of the crowd.

And now, without a thought of his own safety, the boy's heart began to beat high, for not a single dragoon was near the prisoners, and some strange movement was evidently taking place there, but what, it was some moments before he could see.

It seemed to him that several people there had been injured, and that those between him and the first carriage had been crushed to death, while the crowd were passing the bodies over their heads face upward toward the narrow side street up which an effort had been made to drag the carriages.

As far as he could make out by the lamplight, that was it evidently, and so strangely interested was the lad, so fascinated by the sight, that he paid no heed to a couple more volleys fired to right and left. For the moment he hardly knew why he was watching this. Then it came home to him as he twice over saw a gleam as of metal on one of the bodies which floated as it were over a forest of hands and glided onward toward and up the side street.

"Look, boy! Do you see?" said Captain Murray, with his lips close to the lad's ear. "They have dragged the prisoners out, and are passing them over the heads of the crowd."

Frank nodded his head sharply without turning to the speaker, for he could not remove his eyes from the scene till the last fettered figure had passed from his sight.

And now at length the awful pressure began to relax, for the half-dozen streams were setting steadily out of the main street, while in several spots where dragoons had sat wedged in singly two had drifted together. Then there were threes and fours, and soon after a little body of about twenty had coalesced, stood in something like order, and were able to make a stand. Right away toward Cheapside there was now visible beneath a faint cloud of smoke, which looked ruddy in the torch- and lamplight, a glittering line above the heads of the still dense crowd, and Frank grasped the fact that they were bayonets. Then turning in the other direction he saw, far up the street toward Islington, another glittering line, showing that a second body of infantry barred the way.

And now once more came the sound of firing, and Frank's heart resumed its wild beating, for it came rolling down the side street nearly opposite to him, that up which he had seen the prisoners passed, and he knew that troops must be guarding the end.

This was plain enough, for the steady stream passing up it grew slower, then stopped; there was a tremendous shouting and yelling, and the human tide came slowly rolling back, then faster and faster, till it set right across the main street, and joined one going off in the opposite direction.

Soon after, to the boy's horror, he caught sight of one of the prisoners being borne along over the heads of the returning crowd; then of another and another. And now, as the two lines of dimly seen bayonets drew nearer in both directions, there was once more the sound of the trumpet; and in half a dozen places the dragoons began to form up, and, minute by minute growing stronger in the power to move, swords were seen to flash, and they forced their way through the stream, cutting it right across, and hemming in the portion of the crowd over whose heads the perfectly helpless prisoners were being borne.

This manoeuvre having been executed, the rest proved simple. Knot after knot of the dragoons forced their way up to what had become their rallying-point, the foot guards were steadily advancing up and down the main street toward the carriages, and another company was steadily driving the people back along the side street up which the prisoners had been borne.

"A brave attempt, Frank," said Captain Murray; "but they have failed. Come along;" and, dizzy with excitement, the boy felt his horse begin to move beneath him toward the escort which formed a crescent round the carriages in double rank, through which they passed slowly the men of the crowd they had entrapped, till some forty or fifty only remained, whose retreat was cut off by the bristling line of bayonets drawn across the side street down which they had come.

Frank had no eyes for the scene behind him, now shown by the light of many smoky torches,—the roadway littered with hats, sticks, and torn garments, trampled people lying here and there, others who had been borne and laid down close to the houses, whose occupants were now coming out to render the assistance badly enough needed, for even here many were wounded and bleeding from sword cuts: of the ghastly traces of the firing, of course, nothing was visible there. He did not heed either the state of the dragoons, who had not escaped scot free, many of them being injured by sword and cudgel; some had been dragged from their horses and trampled; others stood behind the double line, separated from their mounts, which had gone on with the crowd; most of them were hatless, while several had had their uniforms torn from their backs.

Frank had no eyes for all this; his attention was too fully taken up by the proceedings near the carriages, where the fettered and handcuffed prisoners—five—were being passed in by men of the foot guards, who then formed up round the vehicles, toward which the two teams of horses were now brought back, the men roughly knotting together the cut traces, and fastening them ready for a fresh start toward the prison.

"One of the prisoners has been carried off, Frank," whispered Captain Murray then; and in a weak voice the lad said:

"My father?"

"No, my lad; he is in the second carriage now." The next minute orders were given, and the dragoons advanced to clear the way for the carriages, now surrounded by the bristling bayonets of half a regiment of foot guards, who refused passage to Captain Murray and the boy, so that they had to be content with riding in front of the rear guard of dragoons.

And now once more the yelling of the crowd arose from the direction of Cheapside, where the mob had again gathered strongly; but no mercy was shown. The heavy mass of dragoons that formed the advance guard had received their orders to clear the way, and, finding a determined opposition, the trumpet rang out once more, and they advanced at a gallop, trampling down all before them for a few minutes till the crowd broke and ran. The way was clear enough as at a double the Grenadiers came up, and passed round the angle at Newgate Street, the escort driving the mob before it; and the wide space at the west end of the Old Bailey was reached.

This was packed with troops, who had preserved an opening for the carriages, and into it the Grenadiers marched, and formed up round the massive prison gates. And now Frank made an effort, with Captain Murray's assistance, to get to the carriage door again for one short farewell. But in the hurry and excitement of the time, the pass from the Palace and the military uniform the captain wore went for nothing, the dense mass of Grenadiers stood firm, and very few minutes sufficed for the prisoners to be passed in and the gates closed. A strong force of infantry was stationed within and without, for the authorities dreaded an attack upon the prison; and the regiment of dragoons that had been detailed to meet the escort and guard the road to Islington patrolled the approaches, while the rest marched off to their quarters amidst the hooting and yelling of the crowd.

Captain Murray turned off at once into a side street, and rode beside Frank for some distance, respecting in silence his young companion's grief, hardly a word passing till they reached the Guards' stables and left their horses, which looked, by the light of the men's lanthorns, as if they had passed through a river. Then the pair hurried across the Park, feeling half-stunned by their adventure, Frank so entirely, exhausted that he would have gladly availed himself of his friend's arm.

But he fought hard, and just as the clock was striking twelve he made his way to his mother's room, wondering whether he was to be called upon to face some fresh grief. But he found Lady Gowan lying awake, and ready to stretch out her hands to him.

"You saw him, Frank?" she whispered; and the disorder of his appearance escaped her notice.

"Yes, mother; I rode beside him, and he spoke to me."

"Yes, yes; what did he say?" cried Lady Gowan.

Frank delivered his father's loving message, and his mother's eyes closed.

"Yes," she said softly, "to meet again in happier times." Then, unclosing her eyes again, she moaned out, "Oh, Frank, Frank, my boy, my boy!" and he forgot his own weakness and suffering in his efforts to perform the sacred duty which had fallen to his lot.



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

AFTER THE FAILURE.

That next morning, after a long sleep, the result of exhaustion, Frank Gowan awoke with the horrors of the previous night seeming to have grown so that they could no longer be borne. He hurried across to his mother's apartments, to find from the nurse that she was sleeping, and must not of course be disturbed; so he went over to Captain Murray, who received him warmly.

"Better, my lad?" he said.

"Better?" cried Frank reproachfully.

"I mean rested. Frank lad, we had a narrow escape of our lives last night. I hear already that about fifty dragoons were more or less injured."

"And how many of the people?" said Frank bitterly.

"That will never be known, my boy. It is very horrible when orders are given to fire upon a crowd. Many fell, I'm afraid. But there, don't look so down-hearted."

"Have you heard who was the prisoner that escaped?"

"Yes. They have not taken him again yet; but I don't think he will be able to get right away."

"Not if he can reach the coast?" said Frank.

"Ah! he might then. There, Frank lad, I want to be true to my duty— don't tell upon me—but I can't help feeling that we had bad luck last night, or some one we know might have been the lucky man."

Frank caught at his hand and held it. "If I were the King, I'd pack the prisoners off to France," continued Captain Murray. "I don't like taking revenge on conquered enemies."

"Ah, now you make me feel as if I can speak openly to you," cried Frank. "Tell me, do you think there is still any hope of an escape?"

"There always is, my lad. One thing is very evident, and that is that your father and his companions have plenty of friends in London who are ready to risk their lives to save them. Come, don't be down-hearted; we must hope for the best. They have to be tried yet. A dozen things may happen. Besides, your father was not one of the leaders of the rebellion. What's the matter with your arm?"

"My arm? Oh, I don't know. It's so stiff and painful I can hardly lift it. Yes, I remember now. Some one in the crowd struck me with a heavy stick. I did not feel it so much then; it was only numbed."

"You had better let the doctor see it."

"Oh no," replied Frank. "I have too many other troubles to think about. Captain Murray, what shall I do? I must see my father. Give me your advice, or come with me to ask permission of the Prince."

The captain sat frowning for a few moments, and then rose.

"Yes," he said abruptly; "come."

Frank sprang after him as he moved toward the door, and in a few minutes they were in the antechamber, where a knot of officers were discussing the proceedings of the previous night, but ceased upon their attention being directed to the son of one of the prisoners.

The captain sent in his name as soon as he could; but his efforts to gain an audience were not so successful as upon previous occasions. There were many waiting, and the Prince made no exception in Captain Murray's favour.

The order of precedence was rigidly adhered to, and hours had passed away before the attendant came to where Frank and the captain were seated waiting.

"His Royal Highness will see you, sir," said the gentleman-in-waiting.

Frank sprang to his feet as the captain rose, and moved toward the curtained door.

"I am sorry," said the attendant, with a commiserating look, "but his Royal Highness expressly said that Captain Murray was to come alone."

Frank's lips parted as a look of anguish came into his pale face, and he turned his appealing eyes to the captain, who shook his head sadly.

"I will beg him to see you, my boy," he whispered. "I look to his seeing you to get his consent."

Frank sank back into his seat, and turned his face to the window to hide it from those present, and seemed to them to be gazing out at the gay show of troops under arms and filling the courtyard; but, as he sat, he saw only the interior of the Prince's room, with Captain Murray appealing on his behalf: all else was non-existent.

He had not moved, he had not heard the low buzz of eager conversation that went on, new-comers being unaware of his presence. Fortunate it was that he was deaf to all that was said, for the fate of the prisoners lodged like ordinary malefactors the previous night in Newgate was eagerly discussed, and his father's name was mentioned by several in connection with the axe.

He was still sitting in the same vacant way when, at the end of half an hour, a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and the captain's voice said in a low tone, "Come."

"He will see me?" cried Frank, rising quickly.

"Hush! Keep your sorrow to yourself, as an Englishman should," whispered the captain. "The room is full of people."

"But he will see me?"

"No. Come away," said the captain quietly.

Frank gave him a defiant look; then turned away and walked straight toward the curtained door, which the attendant was about to open to admit another gentleman to the Prince's presence.

Before he was half-way there the captain's strong grasp was upon his shoulder.

"What are you going to do, boy?" he said sternly.

"See the Prince myself. He must—he shall give me leave to go."

"Do you wish to destroy the last chance? Frank, for your mother's sake!"

"No; don't make me struggle before all these people to get free," said the boy firmly; but as he spoke the captain's last words stood out before him in their real significance.

"For your mother's sake!"

He turned back without another word, and walked with his companion out of the room and down into the courtyard without a word.

"Take me somewhere," he said, in a strange, dazed way. "My head feels confused. I hardly know what I am saying."

Captain Murray drew the boy's hand through his arm, and made as if to lead him to his quarters; but it meant passing crowded-together troops, and, altering his mind, he walked with him sharply out into the Park, till they reached a secluded place where there was a seat.

"Sit down, boy."

"Yes," said Frank obediently. "Now tell me, please."

"I was in there long, but there is little to tell you, boy," said the captain, in a harsh, brusque way to conceal the agony of disappointment he felt. "I appealed again and again to the Prince to give me an order to admit us to the prison, but he sternly refused me, and I have angered him terribly by my obstinate return to the assault. Frank boy, it is like this. The Prince told me that, before your father joined the Pretender, he had made a direct appeal, at his wife's wish, for your father's pardon, and been refused. He says that now, after this open act of rebellion, it is impossible for him to appeal again. That the King is furious because one of the most important prisoners has been allowed to escape—there is a rumour that it was Prince James Francis himself—and that it would be madness to ask for any permission. Men who rebel against their lawful sovereign have no wives or children; they are outlaws without rights. That it is sad for those who love them, but that they must suffer, as they have made others suffer by causing so much blood to be shed."

"He said those cruel words?" said Frank, with his eyes flashing.

"Yes," said the captain sadly.

"Knowing what my poor mother suffers, and my despair?"

"He was angry, and spoke more hardly than he meant, my boy. There is another thing too; the Prince and his Majesty are not on friendly terms. I hear that they have quarrelled, and that they parted in great anger. Frank, you must wait and hope."

"Wait and hope—wait and hope!" said Frank bitterly. "Is that the way a son should seek to comfort his father, and try to save his life? Sit still, and do nothing but wait and hope! Oh, it is of no use! I cannot bear it. I will not stay chained up in this dreadful place. I cannot, I will not serve either the prince or king who would hurry my father to the block."

"Stop! Think what you are saying, boy. What rash thing are you going to do?"

"Rash? Nothing can be rash at such a time. I am going to try and save my father."

"Once more, boy—your mother, have you forgotten her?"

"No," said the lad firmly; "but I should be forgetting her if I made no effort, but sat still and let things drift."

Captain Murray sighed, and rose from his seat.

"Frank," he said gravely, "I never had a brother, but for years now your father seemed to fill a brother's place with me, and I tell you as a man that there is nothing I would not do to save his life. I am a simple soldier; I know my duties well, and if the need arose I could go and face death with the rest, feeling that it was the right thing to do; but I am not clever, I am no statesman—not one of those who can argue and fence—unless," he said bitterly, "it is with my sword. I looked upon you as a mere boy, but over this you are more the man than I. You master me. I cannot do more than defend myself. Still, I think I am advising you rightly when I beg and pray of you to do nothing rash. Don't take any step, I say once more, that will embitter the Prince against you. I will go now. Stay here for a while till you grow calmer, and then come to my quarters. I feel that I only irritate you, and must seem weak and cowardly to you. You will be better alone. I, too, shall be better alone. I want to try and think, and it is hard work this morning, for I am in terrible pain. One of my ribs was broken last night in that crowd, and at times I am sick and faint."

Frank heard his words, but did not seem to grasp them, and sat back in his seat with his chin resting upon his breast as the captain walked slowly away. Had he looked after him, he would have seen that twice over he stopped to lean for a few minutes against a tree.

But the boy neither looked up nor stirred. He sat for some time as if completely stunned, till he heard steps approaching, and then, with an impatient movement, he turned a little in his seat, so as to hide his face from whoever it was coming by.

The next moment a familiar voice said distinctly behind him:

"Don't look up—don't move or speak. Be at your father's house at four this afternoon, holding the door ajar till I slip in."

"Drew!" ejaculated Frank, in a sharp whisper, as he obeyed the order, thrilling the while as if with new life infused through his veins; and his eyes followed the tall, slight figure of a jaunty-looking young man, dressed in the height of fashion, walking along as if proud of his bearing and the gold-headed, clouded cane he flourished as he promenaded the Park.

Drew Forbes, whose life would probably be forfeit in those wild times if he were recognised by either of the spies who haunted the Palace precincts—Drew, wearing no disguise, though changed in aspect by his hair being so closely cropped behind! What his appearance might be face to face Frank could not tell.



CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

A MEETING BETWEEN FRIENDS.

"'Be at your father's house at four this afternoon, holding the door ajar till I slip in,'" said Frank, repeating his old companion's words, trembling with excitement the while, as he watched till the figure had disappeared, when a feeling of resentment sent the hot blood to his temples. "No. I will not go. It only means more trouble. Oh, how much of it all is due to him!"

"No," he said a few minutes later. "That is unjust. He must have been with the people who attempted the rescue last night. I will go. He is brave and true, after all. Yes, it is to help again to save my father, and I will be there."

It was like a fillip to him, and a few minutes after he rose, and went back to the Palace, passing several officials whom he knew, all saluting him in a kindly way, as if full of sympathy, but not attempting to speak.

His goal was his mother's room, and to his surprise he found her evidently anxiously expecting him, but very calm and resigned in her manner.

"Frank dear," she said gently, "I feel as if it is almost heartless of me to seem so, but I am better. I will not despair, my own boy, for I feel so restful. It is as if something told me that our prayers would be heard."

"And with him lying in irons in that dreadful gaol," thought Frank, with a momentary feeling of resentment—momentary, for it passed away, and he sat with her, telling her, at her urgent prayer, of all the proceedings of the past night, as well as of his ill-success that morning.

He had prayed of her not to press him, but she insisted, and it was to find that, in place of sending her into a fit of despondent weeping, she spoke afterwards quite calmly.

"Yes," she said gently, as she raised his hand to her cheek and held it there; "all these things are the plans of men, kings, and princes, with their armies. But how insignificant it all seems compared with the greatness of the Power which rules all. Frank dearest, we cannot—we must not despair."

He looked at her wonderingly, and with his heart very sore; but somehow she seemed to influence him, the future did not look quite so solidly black as it had that morning, and he felt ready to tell her of his encounter with Drew. But fearing to raise her hopes unduly on so slender a basis he refrained, and stayed with her till the time was approaching for his visit to the house across the Park. Then he left her wondering at the feeling of lightness that came over him, and not attributing it to the fact that he had something to do—something which called his faculties into action to scheme and contrive the meeting without being baffled by those who dogged the steps of every one about the place.

Hope was inspiring him too again, and he refrained from going near Captain Murray, setting quite at nought all thought of his duties at the Palace, and waiting in his room watching the clock till he felt that it was time to go.

He sat for a few moments longer, trying to come to a conclusion which would be the better plan—to go carefully to the house after taking every precaution against being seen, or to go boldly without once looking back.

The latter was the plan he determined to adopt; but to throw dust in the eyes of any watcher, he placed a couple of books under one arm, and determined to bring three or four different ones back, so as to make it appear that he had been to change some works in his father's library.

Whether any spy was upon his track or no he could not tell, for, following out his plan, he went straight away to the house, thundered loudly at the door, and dragged at the bell.

The old housekeeper admitted him with her old precautions, and eagerly asked after her ladyship's health. Her next question, whether he had heard from Sir Robert, convinced the lad that, living her quiet, secluded life, she was in perfect ignorance of the stirring events of the past two or three weeks, and he refrained from enlightening her.

"Now, Berry," he said, "go down and stay there till I call you up again."

"Oh, my dear young master!" said the old woman, beginning to sob.

"Why, what's the matter, Berry?" he cried.

"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she sobbed, with her apron to her eyes; "it's glad I am to see you when you come, but I do wish you'd stay away."

"Stay away! Why?"

"Because it only means fresh trouble whenever you come over here. I don't care for myself a bit, my dear; but as soon as I see your bonny face, I begin to quake, for I know it means spies and soldiers coming after you and I expect to see you marched off to the Tower, and brought back with your head chopped off and put up along with the traitors. Don't do it, my dear; don't do it."

"Don't do what?" cried Frank impatiently.

"Don't go running dreadful risks, my dear, and meddling with such matters. Let 'em have which king they like, and quarrel and fight about it; but don't you have anything to do with it at all."

"And don't you try to interfere with matters you can't understand, you dear old Berry," cried the lad, kissing her affectionately.

"Ah! that's like the dear little curly-headed boy who used to come and kiss me, and ask me to melt lumps of sugar in the wax candle to make him candy drops. I often think now, Master Frank, that you have forgotten your poor old nurse. Ah! I remember when you had the measles so badly, and your poor dear little face was red and dreadful—"

"Yes, yes, Berry; but I am so busy now. I expect some one to come."

"Not the soldiers, my dear?"

"No, no, no!"

"Nor those dreadful spies?"

"I hope not, Berry. You go down, please, at once, and wait till I call you up."

"Yes, my dear, yes," said the woman sadly. "You're master now poor dear Sir Robert is away. I'll go; but pray, pray be careful. It would kill me, my dear."

"Kill you?" cried Frank. "What would?"

"I should—yes, I would do that!—I should crawl somehow as far as the city to have one look at your poor dear head sticking on a spike, and then I should creep down a side street, and lay my head on a doorstep, and die."

"No, you shan't!" cried Frank, laughing in spite of his excitement, as he hurried the weeping old woman to the top of the basement stairs. "I'll come here properly, with my head upon my shoulders. There, there; go down and wait. I don't think anything will happen to-day to frighten you. Never mind; if any one comes I'll open the door."

"Oh, my dear, I can't let you do that," remonstrated the old woman. "What would my lady say?"

"That old Berry was a dear, good, obedient housekeeper, who always did what she was told."

"Ah!" sighed the old lady, with a piteous smile; "you always did coax and get the better of me, Master Frank; and many's the time I've made you ill by indulging you with pudding and cakes that you begged for. Yes, I'll go down, my dear; but I'll come the moment you call or ring."

Frank stood watching her till she reached the foot of the stairs, and then started and ran across the hall in his excitement, for a clock was striking, and he had hardly let down the chain and unfastened the door to hold it ajar, when there was a step outside, it was pushed open, and Drew Forbes glided in, and thrust it to.

"Frank, old lad!" he cried excitedly, as the chain was replaced; and he seized his companion by the shoulders, and shook him. "Oh, I am glad to see you again."

"And I you," cried the lad, as full of excitement.

"Hah! these are queer times. I am fit to touch now. Did you ever see such a miserable, dirty beggar as I was that day in the Park?"

"Don't talk about that, Drew," cried Frank; "come upstairs."

"Yes, we may as well sit down, for I'm nearly run off my legs. I say, did you get hurt in the crowd?"

"A little," said Frank eagerly. "Were you there?"

Drew did not reply till they were in the room on the first floor looking over the Park; and then he threw himself full length on one of the couches, while Frank closed and locked the door.

"Not laziness, old lad—fagged, and must rest when I can. Was I there? Of course I was. But oh, what a mess we made of it! Everything was well thought out; but you were too strong for us. We should have got them all away if they had not trapped us with the foot guards. Some soldier must have planned it all. Our fellows fought like lions till they began firing volleys and drove all before them with fixed bayonets. Poor dear old Frank! I am sorry for you."

"And I'm as sorry for you," said the boy sadly, as he pressed the thin, white, girlish hand which held his.

"Sorry for me?" said Drew sharply. "I'm all right."

"Then your father was not one of the prisoners?" said Frank eagerly.

"Not with them? Didn't you see him there?"

"No; I only saw that two other gentlemen were in the carriage with my father. I only had eyes for him."

"That's natural enough," said Drew; "I hardly saw your father till we got them all out of the carriages, chained hand and foot. Oh, what miserable, cowardly tyranny! Gentlemen, prisoners of war, treated like thieves and murderers! Poor fellows! they could do nothing to help themselves."

"But you rescued one," said Frank. "Is he safe?"

"Safe as safe," cried Drew joyously.

"Ah!" said Frank with a sigh, "you are very loyal to your Prince."

"I don't know so much about that, old lad. He does not turn out well."

"Not grateful to you all for saving him, while the others were recaptured and cast in gaol!" Drew sat up suddenly.

"I say, what are you talking about?" he cried. "About your rescuing and carrying off the Prince to safety."

"Nonsense! He was safe enough before. Didn't I say he does not turn out well?"

"Yes; but you rescued him last night: I heard it at the Palace this morning."

"Stuff! He kept himself safe enough over the water without showing his face."

"Then who was it you saved?"

"Who was it? Why, my dear old dad, of course. We nearly lost him, for a great tall Guardsman had got hold of him by the fetter ring round his waist, only I made him let go. I hope I haven't killed him, Frank," added the lad between his teeth; "but I had a sword in my hand—and I used it."

"Oh, I am glad you have saved your father, Drew."

"And I am sorry we did not save yours, Frank. Perhaps if you had been helping us you might have done as I did, and he too might have been where your King's people couldn't touch him.

"There, I did not mean to say that," continued Drew, after a short pause. "It isn't kind and straight to you. I won't reproach you, Franky; for I can't help feeling that you are, as father says, the soul of honour. He said I was to tell you how proud he felt that you were my best friend—we are friends still, Frank?"

"Of course."

"But I have said some nasty things to you, old lad."

"I can't remember things like that," said Frank sadly; "only that when you did not talk of the other side we were very jolly together."

"And I couldn't help it," said Drew earnestly.

"I know it."

"Well, I didn't come here to talk about that."

"No, it's all past. Let's talk about the future."

"Yes; how's dear Lady Gowan?"

"How can she be, Drew?" said Frank wearily.

The tears started to Drew's eyes, which filled, as he caught his friend's hands in his, and the next moment the big drops began trickling down.

"There," he said quietly, "I'm crying like a great girl. I can't help it when I think about her. I always was a weak, passionate, hysterical sort of fellow, Frank, and I'm worse than ever now with all this strain. But you tell her when you go back that there are some thousands of good men and true now in London who will not stop till they have saved dear Sir Robert, and the other brave leaders who are shut up in that wretched prison."

"Ah!" sighed Frank; "if they only could!"

"But we will," cried Drew excitedly.

"Well, your father is safe," said Frank bitterly. "I suppose he will leave the country now?"

"What, and forsake his friends?" cried Drew proudly. "You don't know my father yet. No; he says he will not stir till your father is safe; and we'll have them out yet, if we have to burn the prison first."

Frank looked at him wildly.

"But there are more ways of killing a cat than hanging it, lad," continued Drew with a laugh, as he dashed away the last of his hysterical tears. "I look a nice sort of a hero, don't I? But I came to tell you not to be down-hearted, for there are plenty of brains at work."

"And I must help!" cried Frank excitedly.

"No; you leave it to the older heads. I should like to help too; but my father says that I am to leave it to him. He has a plan. And now I am coming to what I came principally for."

"Then you have something else to say?"

"Yes. Is your mother still so very ill?"

"Yes, very."

"That is bad; but ill or no, she must make an effort."

"Oh, she is making every effort to get my father spared," cried Frank bitterly.

"I suppose so," said Drew. "But look here; your poor father is suffering horribly."

"As if I did not know that!" cried Frank.

"And my father says that Lady Gowan must get a permit to allow her to go and see him in prison."

"Yes, of course," cried Frank excitedly.

"Go back then now, and tell her to get leave; the Princess will—must get that for her. They can't refuse it."

"No, they dare not!" said Frank, whose pale face was now quivering with emotion.

"When would she go?"

"As soon as possible—to-day if she could."

"To-morrow would be better," said Drew quietly. "She would go in her carriage, of course."

"Oh no; she would go in one of the royal carriages—the one used by the ladies of honour."

"Of course. I did not see that."

"I shall go with her," said Frank.

"No; she must go to him alone. You saw Sir Robert yesterday. My father thought of that. He said it would be better."

"I'll do anything he thinks best."

"Then go back now, and tell her to be calm, and to try all she can to be strong enough to see the Princess and get the permission."

"Yes, I'll go directly," said Frank. "But you? I don't want you to run any risks."

"And I don't want to. May I stay here till dark?"

"Of course."

"Then call up your housekeeper, and tell her that I am to come and go here just as if I belonged to the place."

Frank hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Yes, of course."

"I'll tell you why, Frank, my lad," said Drew quickly. "When your mother leaves the Palace to go to Newgate, she must call here first."

"Here first! Why?"

"To see me. I shall be here with a very important message from my father to yours. Tell Lady Gowan she must come, for it may mean the saving of your father's life."

"But—"

"Don't raise obstacles, lad," cried Drew angrily. "Is there anything so strange in her telling the servants to drive to her own house and calling here first?"

"Then it is to take files and ropes," whispered Frank.

"It is to do nothing of the sort," said Drew sharply. "Such plans would be childish. Lady Gowan will not be asked to do anything to help her husband to escape. It can't be done that way, Frank. Now, then, you are man enough to think for her in this emergency. Tell her what to do, and she will cling to you and follow your advice. Will you do this?"

"Will I do it!" cried the lad. "Is there anything I would not do to spare her pain?"

"That's good. Come here, and meet her afterwards."

"Yes, of course."

"Give her plenty of time first. Now ring for your old lady, and tell her I am to stay and do as I like. And, I say, Frank, I'm starving. I have eaten nothing to-day."

"Oh!" ejaculated the lad. "Well, that will please her."

"I must have a key to come and go."

"You shall do what you please, only pray be careful. Don't get yourself arrested."

"Not if I can help it, lad. Now, be of good heart; we shall save your father yet. It may not be till after his trial."

"His trial?"

"Of course. They'll all be tried and condemned; but we will have them away, and perhaps James Francis on the throne even yet."

Frank looked at him searchingly, when Drew lay down again, as if something was on his mind that he could not clearly grasp; but he said nothing, and rang the bell, which was answered directly by the old housekeeper.

"Mrs Berry," said Frank, "my friend here—"

"Mr Andrew Forbes, sir, yes."

"Hi! Hush! What are you talking about?" cried Drew, starting up angrily. "I'm not here, my good woman. Do you want to send me to prison?"

"Oh dear me, oh dear me!" cried the poor woman excitedly. "What have I done now?"

"Nothing, nothing, Berry," said Frank hastily, "only it must not be known that Mr Forbes is here. You must not mention his name again."

"Very well, sir," said the woman sadly; and she gave her young master a reproachful look.

"My friend will have the front-door key, and stay here or come and go as often as he likes."

"Very well, sir. You are master now," said the housekeeper sadly.

"He will be here to meet my mother, who will probably come over to-morrow."

"Oh, my dear Master Frank!" cried the woman, brightening up. "That is good news."

"So do all you can for my friend. He wants breakfast or lunch at once. He's faint and hungry."

"Oh, I'll get something ready directly, sir."

"And you will be silent and discreet, Berry."

"You may trust me, sir; and I'll do my best to make your friend comfortable. Will he sleep here to-night?"

"If he wishes, Berry."

"Certainly, sir;" and the housekeeper hurried away.

"That's right," said Drew quietly. "I don't think any one saw me come. Now you be off, and don't fail to send Lady Gowan to comfort your poor father in his distress."

They parted directly after, and Frank hurried back, and went straight to his mother's apartments.



CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

THE PRISON PASS.

"Oh, my boy!" cried Lady Gowan, "how long you have been without coming to me."

Frank looked at her in surprise, as she rose from the couch on which she had been lying—dressed.

"Yes, yes, dear, I feel stronger now. Have you any news? Where have you been?"

"Home," said Frank, watching her intently. "I have seen Drew Forbes."

"Yes, yes; has he any news?"

"He has seen his father, and says that you are not to lose hope."

"All words, words!" sighed Lady Gowan, wringing her hands.

"And that it is your duty to go and see my father in prison."

"As if we needed to be told that," cried Lady Gowan scornfully. "I am going to him directly I can get permission."

"You are?" cried Frank excitedly.

"Of course. The Princess has been here to see me, and she has promised that if I am well enough I shall have an order to see your father in his prison to-morrow."

"Oh!" cried Frank excitedly, "that is good news. I had come to beg you to appeal to the Princess. Mother dearest, the Forbeses are our friends, but you must not speak about them to a soul."

"I, my boy?" cried Lady Gowan, clinging to him, and speaking passionately; "I can speak of no one—think of no one but your father now."

"But you must, mother. It is important. They have promised to help my father to escape."

"Frank!—no, no; it is impossible. Oh, my dear boy, you must not join in any plot. You must not—yes, yes, it is your duty to try and save his life, come what may," cried Lady Gowan.

"Hush, mother! Pray be calm," whispered Frank. "Now listen. You will not be asked to do anything but this."

"Yes, yes. What, dear?" she said, in a sharp whisper. "No: wait a moment."

She made an effort to regain her composure, and at last succeeded.

"Don't think ill of me, my boy," she said. "I wished to be—I have tried to be—loyal to those who have been our truest friends; but your father's life is at stake, and I can only think now of saving him. Speak out—tell me what they wish."

"I hardly know, mother; but they only ask this: that you convey an important message from Andrew's father to mine."

"Is that all?" sighed Lady Gowan.

"You must drive over to our house when you leave here to-morrow; go in, and you will find Drew waiting there."

"Drew Forbes waiting at our house?" said Lady Gowan in astonishment.

"Yes; he will have the message from his father for you to bear, and you must not fail, for it may mean the ruining of his hopes."

"I—I do not understand, my dear," sighed Lady Gowan; "but I will do anything now. I would die that I might save his life."

"But will you be able to go, mother? You are so weak."

"The thought that I shall see him and bear him news that may save his life will give me strength, Frank. Yes, I will go."

Frank felt astonished at the change which had come over her, and sat answering her questions about his proceedings on the previous night, for, in her thirst to know everything, she made him repeat himself again and again; but he could not help noticing that all the while she was keenly on the alert, listening to every sound, and at last starting up as her attendant entered the room with a letter.

"Hah!" she cried, snatching it from the woman's hands.

"And the nurse says, my lady, may she come in now?"

"No, no; I cannot see her. Go!" cried Lady Gowan imperiously; and she tore open the letter, as the woman left the room. "Hah! See, see, Frank! It is an order signed by the King himself. With the Princess's dear love and condolence. Heaven bless her! But oh! Look!"

Frank took the order and read it quickly.

It was for Lady Gowan, alone and unattended, to be admitted to the prisoner's cell for one hour only on the following day.

"I must write and appeal again, my boy. You must be with me."

"No, mother," said Frank sadly. "I was with my father last night. This visit should be for you alone."

She looked at him half resentfully, and then drew him to her breast.

Before he left her he once more drew from her the promise that she would fulfil the instructions he gave her, and call in Queen Anne Street, go up, see Drew Forbes, and take the message from his father.

"I don't understand it," said the lad to himself, as he left his mother's apartments; "but it must mean something respecting my father's prospects of escape—some instructions perhaps. Oh, everything must give way now to saving his life."

Then thinking and thinking till his brain began to swim, he went to his own room, feeling utterly exhausted, but unable to find rest.

In the morning he ran round, and found that the doctor was with his mother; and as the great physician came out he shook hands with the lad.

"Yes?" he said smiling; "you wish to know whether I think Lady Gowan will be able to go and pay that visit this afternoon? Most certainly. Her illness is principally from anxiety, and I have no hesitation in saying that she would be worse if I forbade her leaving her apartments. I will be here to see her in the evening after her return."

Frank entered his mother's room to find her wonderfully calm, but there was a peculiarly wild look of excitement in her eyes; and as the lad gazed inquiringly at her, she said softly:

"Have no fear, dear. I shall be strong enough to bear it. You will come, and see me start! The carriage will be here at two."

"And you will go round home first?" said Frank softly.

"Yes," she cried, with the excited look in her eyes seeming to grow more intense. "But, my boy, my boy, if I could only have you with me! Frank dear, we must save him. But do you think that these people can and will help him?"

"I feel sure, mother," replied Frank. "Take the message Drew brings to you, and see what my father says."

"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "I feel that they will help, for these people are staunch to each other. They helped the Pretender to escape."

"It was not the Pretender, mother," whispered Frank; "it was Drew's father. And he has vowed that he will not leave England and seek safety until my father is safe."

"Then Heaven bless him!" cried Lady Gowan, passionately. "I had my doubts as to whether it would be wise to bear his message to your father, but I am contented now. Leave me, my dearest boy. I want strength to bear the interview this afternoon, and the doctor told me that, unless I rested till the last moment, I should not have enough to carry me through. But you will be here?"

"I will be here," he said tenderly; and once more they parted, Frank going across to Captain Murray, and telling him of his mother's visit.

"It is too much for her to bear," he said sadly. "Surely she has not the strength!"

"You don't know my mother's determination," said the boy proudly. "Oh yes, she will go."

"Heaven give her the fortitude to bear the shock!" muttered the captain. "Can I do anything—see her there?" he asked.

"No, no," said Frank hastily. "She must go alone. The carriage will take her and wait. But you; how is the side?"

"Oh, I have no time to think about a little pain, my boy. Frank, we are all trying what we can do by a petition to his Majesty. The colonel will present it when it is ready. He must—he shall show mercy this time; so cheer up, boy. No man in the army has so many friends as your father, and the King will see this by the names attached to our prayer."

But these words gave little encouragement, and Frank felt that in his heart he had more faith in some bold attempt made by his father's friends. He thought, moreover, from Drew's manner, that there must be something more in progress than he divined, and going back to his duties—which he did or left undone without question now—he waited impatiently for the afternoon.

But never had the hours dragged along so slowly, and it seemed a complete day when, at a few minutes before two, he went round to his mother's apartments, and found one of the private carriages with the servants in plain liveries waiting at the door.

On ascending to his mother's room, he found her seated there, dressed almost wholly in black, and with a thick veil held in her hand. She was very pale and stern; but her face lit up as the boy crossed to her, and took her cold, damp hands in his.

"There," she said tenderly, "you see how calm I am."

"Yes; but if I could only go with you, mother!" he said.

"Yes; if you could only go with me, my boy! But it is impossible. No, not impossible, for you will be with me in spirit all the time. I take your love to your father—and—ah!"

Her eyes closed, and she seemed on the point of fainting, but, struggling desperately against the weakness, she mastered it and rose.

"Take me down to the carriage, Frank," she said firmly. "It is the waiting which makes me weak. Once in action, I shall go on to the end. You will be here to meet me on my return? It will be more than two hours—perhaps three. There, you see I am firm now."

He could not speak, and he felt her press heavily upon his arm, as he led her downstairs and handed her into the carriage.

Then for the first time a thought struck him.

"Mother," he whispered, as he leaned forward into the carriage. "You ought not to go alone. Some lady—"

"Hush! Not a word to weaken me now. I ought to go alone," she said firmly. "I could not take another there. I could not bear her presence with me. It is better so. Tell the men to drive to Queen Anne Street first."

The door was closed sharply, he gave the servants their instructions, and then stood watching the carriage as it crossed the courtyard. But as it disappeared he felt that the excitement was more than he could bear, and, in place of going back to the Prince's antechamber, he hurried out into the Park, to try and cool his heated brain.



CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

CAPTAIN MURRAY'S NEWS.

The walk in the cool air beneath the trees seemed to have the opposite effect to that intended, for the boy's head was burning, and his busy imagination kept on forming pictures of what had passed and was passing then. He saw his mother get out of the carriage at their own door, that weak, sorrow-bent form in black, and enter, the carriage waiting for her return. He followed her up the broad staircase into the half-darkened drawing-room, where Drew was waiting to give her the important message from his father.

"Yes," thought the boy; "it will be a letter of instructions what he is to do, for they have, I feel certain now, made some plan for his escape. But what?"

Then, with everything in his waking dream, he saw his mother descend and leave the house again, enter the carriage, the steps were rattled up, the door closed, and he followed it in imagination along the crowded streets to the dismal front of Newgate, where, with vivid clearness, he saw her enter the gloomy door and disappear.

"I can't bear it," he groaned, as he threw himself on the grass; "I can't bear it. I feel as if I shall go mad."

At last the hot, beating sensation in his head grew less painful, for the vivid pictures had ceased to form themselves as he mentally saw his mother enter the prison, and in a dull, heavy, despairing fashion he reclined there, waiting until fully two hours should have passed away before he attempted to return to his mother's apartment to await her return.

The time went slowly now, and he lay thinking of the meeting that must be taking place, till, feeling that if he lay longer there he should excite attention, he rose and walked slowly on, meaning to go right round the Park, carrying out his original intention of trying to grow calm.

He went slowly on, so as to pass the time, for he felt that it would be unbearable to go back to his mother's room, and perhaps have the nurse and maid fidgeting in and out.

The result was that he almost crept along thinking, but in a different strain, for there were no more vivid pictures, his brain from the reaction seeming drowsy and sluggish. Half unconscious now of the progress of time, he sauntered on till the sight of the back of their house roused the desire to go and see if Drew were still there; and, hurrying now, he made his way round to the front, knocked, heard the chain put up, and as it was opened saw the old housekeeper peering out suspiciously.

The next minute he was in the hall, with the old woman looking at him anxiously.

"Did my mother come?" he said hoarsely.

"Poor dear lady! Yes, my dear, looking so bent and strange she could hardly speak to me; and when she lifted her veil I was shocked to see how thin and pale she was."

"Yes, yes; but did she go up and see—"

"Mr Friend? Yes, my dear, and stayed talking to him for quite half an hour before she came down. She did not ring first; but I saw her from the window almost tottering, and leaning on the footman's arm. He had quite to help her into the carriage. Oh, my dear, is all this trouble never to have an end?"

"Don't talk to me, Berry; but please go down. I am going up to see my friend. He is in the drawing-room, I suppose?"

"Oh yes, my dear. He has been in and out when I have not known, and I heard him talking to himself last night. Poor young man! he seems in trouble too."

"Yes, yes. Go down now," said Frank hastily; and as the old woman descended, he sprang up the stairs, and turned the handle of the drawing-room door.

But it was locked.

He knocked sharply.

"Open the door," he said, with his lips to the keyhole. "It is I— Frank."

The key was turned, and he stepped in quickly, to stand numbed with surprise; for Lady Gowan, looking ghastly white, stood before him, without bonnet or cloak.

"Well?" she cried; "tell me quick!" and her voice sounded hoarse and strange.

"You here!" stammered Frank. "Oh, I see. Oh, mother, mother, and you have been too ill to go."

"No, no. Don't question me," she said wildly. "I can't bear it. Only tell me, boy—the truth—the truth!"

"You are ill," he cried. "Here, let me help you to the couch. Lie down, dear. The doctor must be fetched."

"Frank!" she cried, "do you wish to drive me mad? Don't keep it back. I am not ill. Your father! Has he escaped?"

It was some minutes before he could compel his mother to believe that he knew nothing, and grasped from her incoherent explanations that, when she had reached the house two hours before, she had come up to the drawing-room and found Drew impatiently waiting there.

He had then given her his father's message of hope for his dear friend's safety, and his assurance that a couple of thousand friends would save him. Moreover, the lad unfolded the plan they had made.

It was simple enough, and possible from its daring, for at the sight of the King's order the authorities of the prison would be off their guard.

Lady Gowan was to give up dress, bonnet, and cloak, furnish Drew with the royal mandate, leave him to complete the disguise by means of false hair, and thus play the part of the heart-broken, weeping wife.

Thus disguised, he was to go down to the carriage, be helped in, and driven to the prison. There he was to stay the full time, and in the interval to exchange dresses with the prisoner, who, cloaked and veiled, bent with suffering and grief, was to present himself at the door when the steps of the gaolers were heard, and suffer himself to be assisted back to the carriage and driven off.

"Yes, but then—then—" cried Frank wildly. "Oh, it is madness; it could not succeed!"

"Don't, don't say that, my boy," wailed Lady Gowan. "I must, mother, I must," cried the boy passionately. "Why did he not confide in me? I could have told him what I dared not tell you."

"Yes, yes, what?" cried Lady Gowan. "Tell me now. I can—I will bear it."

"My poor father was fettered hand and foot. It was impossible for him to escape."

There was a painful silence, which was broken at last by Lady Gowan, who laid her hands with a deprecating gesture upon her son's breast.

"Don't blame me, Frank," she whispered. "I was in despair. I snatched at the proposal, thinking it might do some good, when my heart was yearning to be at your father's side. You cannot think what I suffered."

"Blame you?" cried Frank. "Oh, how could I, mother? But I must leave you now."

"Leave me! At a time like this?"

"Yes, you must bear it, mother. I will come back as soon as possible; but Drew—the carriage? Even if he succeeded in deceiving the gaolers and people, what has happened since?"

"Yes, you must go," said Lady Gowan, as she fought hard to be firm. "Go, get some news, my boy, and come back to me, even if it is to tell me the worst. Remember that I am in an agony of suspense that is killing me."

Frank hurried out, feeling as if it was all some terrible dream, and on reaching the street he directed his steps east, to make his way to the great prison. But he turned back before he had gone many yards.

"No," he thought; "everything must be over there, and I could not get any news. They would not listen to me."

He walked hurriedly along, turning into the Park, and another idea came to him: the royal stables, he would go and see if the carriage had returned. If it had, he could learn from the servants all that had occurred.

He broke into a run, and was three parts of the way back to the stable-yard, seeing nothing before him, when his progress was checked by a strong arm thrown across his chest.

"Don't stop me!" he shouted.—"You, Captain Murray!"

"Yes, I was in search of you. Have you heard?"

"Heard? Heard what?" panted the boy.

"Your father has escaped."

Frank turned sharply to dash off; but Captain Murray's strong hand grasped his arm.

"Stop!" he cried. "I cannot run after you; I'll walk fast. My side is bad."

"Don't stop me," cried Frank piteously.

"I must, boy. It is madness to be running about like this. Don't bring suspicion upon you, and get yourself arrested—and separated from your mother when she wants you most."

"Hah!" ejaculated Frank; and he fell into step with his father's old comrade.

"I will not ask you where you are going; but I suppose in search of your mother."

"Yes; she is at home."

"What? My poor boy! No. The news is now running through the Palace like wildfire. She went to visit your father in Newgate this afternoon, as you know. I don't wish to ask what complicity you had in the plot."

"None," cried Frank excitedly.

"I am glad of it, though anything was excusable for you at such a time. On reaching the prison she was supported in by the servants and gaolers. She stayed there nearly an hour, and, as the people there supposed, she was carried back to the carriage in a chair, half fainting."

"Ah!" ejaculated Frank, who was trembling in every limb.

"The servants say that the carriage was being driven back quickly by the shortest cuts, so as to avoid the main thoroughfares, when in one of the quiet streets by Soho three horsemen stopped the way, and seized the reins as the coachman drew up to avoid an accident. A carriage which had been following came up, and half a dozen men sprang from it—one from the box, two from behind, and the rest from inside. The footmen were hustled away, and threatened with drawn swords by four of the attacking party, while the others opened the door, as one of them says, to abduct Lady Gowan, but the other declares that it was a man in disguise who sprang out and then into the other carriage, which was driven off, all taking place quickly and before any alarm could be given. The startled men then came on to state what had occurred; but almost at the same time the tidings came from the prison that Lady Gowan remained behind, and that it was Sir Robert whom they had helped away."

"Oh!" groaned Frank, giddy with excitement. "Come faster, or I must run. She is dying to know. I must go and tell her he is safe."

"You cannot, you foolish boy," cried the captain, half angrily. "Do you suppose they would admit you to the prison now?"

"Prison!" cried Frank wildly. "Did I not tell you that she was close here—at our own house."

"What! When did you see her?"

"Not a quarter of an hour ago."

Captain Murray uttered a gasp.

"My poor lad!" he groaned. "Poor Rob—poor Lady Gowan! Then it is all a miserable concoction, Frank. He has not escaped."

"Yes, yes," cried the lad wildly. "You don't understand. It was Drew Forbes who went—my mother's cloak and veil."

"What! And your mother is safe at home?"

"Yes, yes," cried Frank. "Don't you see?"

The captain burst into a wild, strange laugh, and stood with his face white from agony and his hand pressed upon his side.

"Run," he whispered; "I am crippled. I can go no farther. Tell her at once. They will get him out of the country safely now. Oh, Frank boy, what glorious news!"

Frank hardly heard the last words, but dashed off to where he found his mother kneeling by the couch in the darkened room, her face buried in her hands.

But she heard his step, and sprang up, her face so ghastly that it frightened him as he shouted aloud:

"Safe, mother!—escaped!"

"Ah!" she cried, in a low, deep sigh full of thankfulness; and she fell upon her knees with her hands clasped together and her head bent low upon her breast, just as the clouds that had been hanging heavily all the day opened out; and where the shutters were partly thrown back a broad band of golden light shot into the room and bathed the kneeling figure offering up her prayer of thankfulness for her husband's life, while Frank knelt there by her side.

It was about an hour later, when mother and son were seated together, calm and pale after the terrible excitement, talking of their future—of what was to happen next, and what would be their punishment and that of the brave, high-spirited lad who was now a prisoner—that Berry tapped softly at the door.

"A letter, my lady," she said, "for Master Frank;" and as she came timidly forward, the old woman's eyes looked red and swollen with weeping.

"For me, Berry?" cried Frank wonderingly. "Why, nurse, you've been crying."

"I'm heart-broken, Master Frank, to see all this trouble."

"Then go and mend it," cried the lad excitedly. "The trouble's over. It's all right now."

"Ah! and may I bring your ladyship a dish of tay?"

"Yes, and quickly," said Frank tearing open the letter. "Mother!" he cried excitedly, "it's from Drew."

It was badly written, and in a wild strain of forced mirth.

"Just a line, countryman," he wrote. "This is to be delivered when all's over, and dear old Sir Robert is safe away. Tell my dear Lady Gowan I'm doing this as I would have done it for my own mother, and did not tell you because you're such a jealous old chap, and would have wanted to go yourself. I say, don't tell her this. I don't believe they'll do anything to me, because they'll look upon me as a boy, and I'm reckoning upon its being the grandest piece of fun I ever had. If they do chop me short off, I leave you my curse if you don't take down my head off the spike they'll stick it on, at the top of Temple Bar, out of spite because they could not get Sir Robert's. Good-bye, old usurper worshipper. I can't help liking you, all the same. Try and get my sword, and wear it for the sake of crack-brained Drew."

"Poor old Drew!" groaned Frank, in a broken voice. "Oh, mother, I was not to let you see all this."

"Not see it?" said Lady Gowan softly; and her tears fell fast upon the letter, as she pressed it to her lips. "Yes, Frank, you would have done the same. But no; they will not—they dare not punish him. The whole nation would rise against those who took vengeance upon the brave act of the gallant boy."

That evening the problem of their future was partly solved by another letter brought by hand from the Palace. It was from the Princess, and very brief:

"I cannot blame you for what you have done, for my heart has been with you through all your trouble. At present you and your son must remain away. Some day I hope we shall meet again.

"Always your friend."



CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

AU REVOIR.

About a fortnight after the events related in the last chapter a little scene took place on board a fishing lugger, lying swinging to a buoy in one of the rocky coves of the Cornish coast. A small boat hung behind, in which, dimly seen in the gloom of a soft dark night, sat a sturdy-looking man, four others being seated in the lugger, ready to cast off and hoist the two sails, while, quite aft on the little piece of deck, beneath which there was a cabin, stood four figures in cloaks.

"All ready, master," said one of the men in a singsong tone. "Tide's just right, and the wind's springing up. We ought to go."

"In one minute," said one of the gentlemen in cloaks; and then he turned to lay his hands upon the shoulders of the figure nearest to him: "Yes, we must get it over, Frank. Good-bye, God bless you, boy! We are thoroughly safe now; but I feel like a coward in escaping."

"No, Gowan," said the gentleman behind him. "We can do no more. If they are to be saved, our friends will do everything that can be done. Remember they wish us gone."

"Yes; but situated as I am it is mad to go. You have your son, thanks to the efforts of the Prince and Princess. I have to leave all behind. Frank boy, will you let me go alone? will you not come with me, even if it is to be a wanderer in some distant land?"

Frank uttered a half-strangled cry, and clung to his father's hands.

"Yes, father," he said, in a broken voice; "I cannot leave you. I'll go with you, and share your lot."

"God bless you, my boy!" cried the captain, folding him in his arms. "There," he said the next minute, in decisive tones, "we must be men. No; I only said that to try if you were my own true lad. Go back; your place is at your mother's side. Your career is marked out. I will not try to drag you from those who are your friends. The happy old days may come for us all again, when this miserable political struggling is at an end. Frank," he whispered, "who knows what is in the future for us all?" Then quite cheerfully: "Good-bye, lad. I'll write soon. Get back as quickly as you can. Say good-bye to Colonel Forbes and Drew."

"Good-bye—good-bye!" cried Frank quickly, as he shook hands, and then was hurried into the little boat, his father leaning over from the lugger to hold his hand till the last.

That last soon came, for the rope was slipped from the ring of the buoy as one of the sails was hoisted, the lugger careened as the canvas caught the wind, and the hands were suddenly snatched apart.

The second sail followed, and the lugger seemed to melt away into the gloom, as the boat softly rose and fell upon the black water fifty yards from the rocky shore.

"Good-bye!" came from out of the darkness, and again, "Good-bye!" in the voices of Colonel Forbes and his son Drew.

Lastly, and very faintly heard, Sir Robert Gowan's voice floated over the heaving sea: "Au revoir!"

History tells of the stern punishment meted out to the leaders of the rebellion—saving to Lord Nithsdale, who escaped, as Sir Robert had, in women's clothes—of the disastrous fights in Scotland, and the many condemned to death or sent as little better than slaves to the American colonies. But it does not tell how years after, at the earnest prayer of the gallant young officer in the Prince's favourite regiment, Sir Robert Gowan was recalled from exile to take his place in the army at a time when the old Pretender's cause was dead, and Drew Forbes and his father were distinguished officers in the service of the King of France.

THE END.