“I was right and he was wrong, if you mean that,” said I. “But whether he thinks he is beaten—”
“If he be an Englishman, he does not,” said Ephraim. “Particularly if he be a North Country man.”
“I don’t know what country he comes from,” cried I. “I should like to make mincemeat of him.”
“Indigestible,” suggested Ephraim, quite gravely.
“Ephraim, what are we to do for Angus?” said I, as it came back to me: and I told him the news which Mr Raymond had brought. Ephraim gave a soft whispered whistle.
“You may well ask,” said he. “I am afraid, Cary, nothing can be done.”
“What will they do to him?”
His face grew graver still.
“You know,” he said, in a low voice, “what they did to Lord Derwentwater. Colonel Keith had better lie close.”
“But that Whig knows where he is!” cried I. “He—Ephraim, do you know him?”