"Robbed!"
"Forgive me, sire—deprived. See, your Majesty; we are two old men, but active; battered somewhat, but not ignorant; worn, but not worn out. We are at your service: take us, use us as you will. We will serve you faithfully, loyally, without question, until we die or your enemies break us. Only restore our son, Tristram Salt."
"Gentlemen, I will not say but that I am gratified by this—" William paused, saw the hope spring into their eyes, and added, with assumed coldness—"only it happens that you come too late."
The two honest faces fell.
"Too-late?" Captain Barker stammered, staring stupidly at the King. "Is my boy—dead?" The question came in a dull, sick tone, that softened their Sovereign's heart within him.
"Forgive me, gentlemen; I had no right to play thus with your feelings. You have come too late only because I gave the young man his discharge more than two months ago, with a passport to take him back to England."
"But he has not arrived!"
"He started, at any rate; and in company with one who appeared to have the best right to take care of him—I mean his father, Captain Roderick Salt."
Captain Barker groaned.
"May it please your Majesty," said Captain Jemmy, thrusting himself forward, "but Roderick Salt's the damn'dest villain in your service; and that's saying a good deal. I mean no offence, of course."