“Yes—no—no—yes—I don’t know.”
“Nice loyal sort of a servant the Prince has got,” said the captain.
“Don’t talk to me like that, Captain Murray,” said the boy passionately. “I feel that I hate for the rebels to succeed; but how can I help wishing my father success?”
“No, you cannot,” said the captain quietly. “But he will not succeed, my lad. He and the others are in command of a mere rabble of undisciplined men, and before long on their march they will be met by some of the King’s forces sent to intercept them.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the boy, with his cheeks flushing, “and then?”
“What is likely to happen in spite of the training of the leaders? The undrilled men cannot stand against regular troops, even if they are enthusiastic. No: disaster must come sooner or later, and then there is only one chance for us, Frank.”
“For us? I thought you said that the King’s troops would win.”
“Yes, and they will. I as a soldier feel that it must be so. We shall win; but I say there is only one chance for us as friends—a quick escape for your father to the coast and taking refuge in France. We must not have him taken, Frank, come what may.”
“Thank you, Captain Murray,” said the boy, laying his hand on his friend’s sleeve. “You have made me happier than I have felt for days.”
“And it sounds very disloyal, my boy; but I can’t help my heart turning to my old friend to wish him safe out of the rout.”