“Say you so?” said Walter, smiling. “Here is a gentleman who can give you some news of Edmund.”
At the same moment Rose saw her beloved eldest brother enter the room. It would be hard to say which was her first thought, joy or dismay—she had no time to ask herself. Quick as lightning she darted to the door leading to the staircase, bolted it, threw the bar across the fastening of the front entrance, and then, flying to her brother, clung fast round his neck, kissed him on each cheek, and felt his ardent kiss on her brow, as she exclaimed in a frightened whisper, “You must not stay here: there are troopers in the house!”
“Troopers!—quartered on us?” cried Walter.
Rose hastily explained, trembling lest anyone should attempt to enter. Walter paced up and down in despair, vowing that it was a trick to get a spy into the house. Edmund sat down in the large arm-chair with a calm resolute look, saying, “I must surrender, then. Neither I nor my horse can go further without rest. I will yield as a prisoner of war, and well that it is to a man of honour.”
“Oh no, no!” cried Rose: “he says Cromwell treats his prisoners as rebels. It would be certain death!”
“What news of the King?” asked Edmund, anxiously.
“Not seen since the flight? but—”
“And Lord Derby, Wilmot—”
“I cannot tell, I heard no names,” said Rose, “only that the enemy’s cruelties are worse than ever.”
Walter stood with his back against the table, gazing at his brother and sister in mute consternation.