“Of course; isn’t it all bad?”
“Oh!” ejaculated the boy; “I thought there was something fresh—something terrible. But how can the news be kept from her? The Princess goes and sits with her every day, and then tells her everything. She learns more than I do, and gets it sooner; but I can’t go and ask her, for I always feel as if it were cruel and torturing her to make her speak about our great trouble while she is so ill. Now, tell me all you know.”
“It is not much, boy. The Duke of Argyle is busy; he is now appointed to the command of the King’s forces in Scotland, and some troops are being landed from Ireland to join his clans.”
“Yes, yes; but in England?” cried the boy. “My father is not in Scotland. It is about what is going on in England that I want to know.”
It was always the same, and by degrees, as the days went by, Frank learned that his father had, with other gentlemen, joined the Earl of Derwentwater, and that they were threatening Newcastle.
It seemed an age before the next tidings came, and Frank’s heart sank, while those in the Palace were holding high festival, for the Pretender’s little army there had been beaten off, and was in retreat through Cumberland on the way to Lancashire.
A little later came news that in the boy’s secret heart made him rejoice and brought gloom into the Palace. For it soon leaked out that the county militias had been assembled hastily to check the Pretender’s forces, but only to be put to flight and scattered in all directions.
Then despatch after despatch reached the Palace from the north, all containing bad news. The rebels had marched on, carrying everything before them till they neared Preston in triumph.
“Then they’ll go on increasing in strength,” whispered Frank, as he sat with Captain Murray on the evening of the receipt of that news, “and march right on to London!”
“Want them to?” said the captain drily.