“But you were out of bounds, sir.”
“Father,” began Fred, who was in agony, “let me—”
“Silence, sir! He is a soldier now, and must be treated as a soldier.”
“Yes; don’t you say nothing about me, Master Fred, sir. I can bear all I get.”
“Go back to your quarters, sir. You are under arrest, mind, I will deal with you to-morrow.”
Samson gave Fred a meaning look as he was marched off, and Fred’s agony of spirit increased as he asked himself whether he ought not to confide in his father. A dozen times over he was about to speak, but only to hesitate, for he knew that the colonel would sacrifice his friend on the altar of duty, even if he had to sacrifice himself.
“I must save them,” muttered Fred, as he went slowly back to his tent. “I am not firm and stern like my father;” and then, as soon as he was alone, he sat down to think of how he was to contrive the escape unaided and alone.
Night came, with his mind still vacillating, for he could see no way out of his difficulty, and, to render his position more difficult, the colonel came to his tent and sat till long after dark chatting about the likelihood of the war coming to an end, and their prospects of once more settling down at the home whose open doors were so near.
“And the Royalists, father? What of them?” said Fred at last.
“Exiles, I fear, my boy, for their cause is lost. They must suffer, as we must have suffered, had our side gone to the wall.”