No; I could not say that.
“How can you be an opponent of the Cause?” I cried—I am afraid, shifting my ground.
He smiled again. “I can well understand the attraction of the Cause,” said he, “to a young and enthusiastic nature. There is something very enticing in the son of an exiled Prince, come to win back what he conceives to be the inheritance of his fathers. And in truth, if the Old Pretender were really the son of King James,—well, it might be more difficult to say what a man’s duty would be in that case. But that, as you know, is thought by many to be at best very doubtful.”
“You do not believe he is?” cried I.
“I do not believe it,” said Mr Raymond.
I wondered how he could possibly doubt it.
“Nor is that all that is to be considered,” he went on. “I can tell you, young lady, if he were to succeed, we should all rue it bitterly before long. His triumph is the triumph of Rome—the triumph of persecution and martyrdom and agony for God’s people.”
“I know that,” said I. “But right is right, for all that! The Crown is his, not the Elector’s. On that principle, any man might steal money, if he meant to do good with it.”
“The Crown is neither George’s nor James’s, as some think,” said Mr Raymond, “but belongs to the people.”
Who could have stood such a speech as that?