“What is it, Pompey?” Sir John asked.
“There is a man wants to speak to massar right off; something very ’portant: them consarned Whigs is up again.”
“Call him in—be quick, Pomp!” exclaimed Sir John. “What can these traitors be at now?” he continued, as the servant left the room to execute his order.
“I thought you would get into difficulty with them about this time,” replied Butler; “they begin to suspect that you haven’t kept that extorted promise very faithfully—your Highlanders have come out too boldly, and begun to worry the enemy—they are sure of re-enforcements.”
“A promise made to a set of traitors!” said Sir John, scornfully; “only wait till the time comes that I can crush them like so many vipers; miserable rebels!”
Before Butler could answer, the door was opened again, and Pompey ushered into the room a man whose disordered garments betrayed the haste in which he had arrived.
“Your errand?” cried Sir John, imperiously—“don’t waste words, but speak out!”
“The rebel Congress has taken measures against you,” returned the man, bluntly, “and a company of soldiers are on their way here to take you prisoner.”
“This does look like earnest,” said Butler, with a prolonged whistle; “what is the cue now, Sir John?”
“How near are they?” inquired the baronet.