"I cannot drink it, sir! I will not drink!" she cried, and let the can fall clattering from her hold.
"Will not?" the fellow shouted.
She felt his grasp tighten on her arm. She knew that he meant to strike her. But before the blow had time to fall, Rupert had thrust himself in front of her.
"Do not you touch him!" he cried in a quavering voice. "'A is too little! Ye shall not touch him."
"Let the brat drink that pledge. 'Tis a good pledge!" cried one.
"Faith, you shall drink it yourself, you pestilence meddler!" said the fellow who had first laid hold of Merrylips.
He turned from her and caught Rupert by the arm. Some one gave him a cup of ale, and he thrust it into Rupert's hand.
"Down with it!" he ordered. "Drink! To the devil wi' false King Charles!"
Rupert had talked lightly enough of how he should pass himself off for a Roundhead. But now that the time had come, he hesitated. Then his face turned gray and set, as it had been on the day when Lieutenant Digby had bidden him sing.
"Drink!" the Roundhead bade again.