“Ah, it’s a pity. You’re going wrong way, young man. Better come in here, and fight for the king.”
“Better stand up manfully for my own side, and not be a traitor,” retorted Fred, hotly. “How dare you, standing there in safety, keep on this wretched temptation?”
“Wounds and wonder!” cried the Cavalier, “what a fire-eater it is. Here, I don’t wonder that we are shut up helplessly here. I say, Roundhead, will you have a glass of wine?”
“Keep your wine,” said Fred. “I’ve come on business, not to talk and drink.”
At that moment, Sir Godfrey spoke to those about him, drawing back from the window, and the conversational Cavalier followed, leaving Fred sitting stiff and fretful, with all his moral quills set up, the more full of offence that he believed Scarlett was still watching him.
As he sat there, assuming the most utter indifference, and gazing with a solidity that was statuesque straight before him, he could hear a loud buzzing of voices, following the firm deep tones of Sir Godfrey Markham, who had evidently been laying the contents of the message before his companion.
“Will they surrender?” thought Fred. “I hope they will. They are debating the question. It would be a relief; and Scarlett Markham and I—no, Scar and I,” he said, mentally correcting himself—“might perhaps be together again. If he would promise not to take up arms, I dare say my father and General Hedley would let him off from being a prisoner if I asked, and he could go with me to where poor Nat lies out in the wood, and look after him.”
“Huzza! God save the king!”
The shout and words came so suddenly that the little horse Fred rode started and reared, and he was in the act of quieting it down, feeling the while that his ambassage had been in vain, when the party defending the Hall reappeared at the window.
“Youngster!” began Sir Godfrey, in a stern deep voice which annoyed Fred.