“Yes, glorious on an evening like this,” cried Frank excitedly; “and, I say, we can go round by Queen Anne Street.”
“What for? It’s out of the way.”
“Well, only along by the Park side; I want to look up at our windows.”
“But your mother’s at the Palace.”
“Father might be at home; he often sits at one of the windows looking over the Park.”
“Come along then,” cried Andrew mockingly; “the good little boy shall be taken where he can see his father and mother, and—hark! listen! hear that?” he cried excitedly.
“Yes. What can it be?”
“The people hooting and yelling at Granthill. They’re mobbing his carriage. Run, run! I must see that.”
Andrew Forbes trotted off, forgetting all his dignity as one of the Princess’s pages, and heedless now in his excitement of what any of the well-dressed promenaders might think; while, laughing to himself the while, Frank kept step with him, running easily and looking quite cool when the tall, overgrown lad at his side, who was unused to outdoor exercise, dropped into a walk panting heavily.
“Too late!” he said, in a tone of vexation. “There the carriage goes, through Storey’s Gate. Look at the crowd after it. They’ll hoot him till the soldiers stop them. Come along, Frank; we shall see a fight, and perhaps some one will be killed.”