“There, then!” he cried passionately; “I bore it as long as I could: because he insulted my father—it was to defend his honour that I struck him, and we fought.”
“You drew to defend your father’s honour,” said Lady Gowan hoarsely; and her face looked drawn and her lips white.
“Yes, that was it. Is it so childish of me to say that I could not help that?”
“No,” said Lady Gowan, in a painful whisper. “How did he insult your father? What did he say?”
“Must I tell you?”
“Yes.”
Frank drew a long, deep, sobbing breath, and his voice sounded broken and strange, as he said in a low, passionate voice:
“He dared to insult my father—he said he was false to the King—that he had broken his oath as a soldier—that he was a miserable rebel and Jacobite, and had gone over to the Pretender’s side.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Lady Gowan, shrinking back into the corner of the couch, and covering her face with her hands.
“Mother, forgive me!” cried the lad, throwing himself upon his knees, and trying to draw her hands from her face. “I could not speak. It seemed so horrible to have to tell you such a cruel slander as that. I could not help it. I should have struck at anybody who said it, even if it had been the Prince himself.”