“Tell him I can’t,” said the officer in front. “It can only be done by riding over the people.”
And now the men stationed to keep the way had utterly failed, the people having crowded in from the side streets north of Saint Martin’s-le-Grand till the pairs of dragoons were hemmed in, and in spite of several encounters with the crowd they were forced to remain stationary.
The check that came was the announcement that the trot could no longer be continued, and, perforce, the escort advanced at a walk; while, as Frank glanced round for a moment, it suddenly struck him that, save at the windows of the houses, there was not a woman to be seen, the crowd consisting of sturdy-looking men.
The lad had no eyes for the crowd, though. The relapse into a walk had given him the opportunity for grasping his father’s hand again, and Sir Robert said to him hurriedly:
“My dearest love to your mother, Frank lad. Tell her, whatever happens, I have but one thought, and that it is for her, that we may meet in happier times.”
“Meet in happier times” rang through Frank like a death-knell, for he grasped what his father meant, and tried to speak some words of comfort, but they would not come. Even if they had, they would have been drowned by a tremendous cheer which arose from the crowd and went rolling onward.
“The wretches!” muttered Frank; and he turned to look round, with his eyes flashing his indignation. Then, as the cheer went rolling away forward, he repeated his words aloud, unconscious that they would be heard.
“The wretches! It is not a sight.”
“They’re a-cheering of ’em, sir,” said the dragoon at his elbow, “not hooting ’em, poor fellows!”
Frank darted a grateful look in the man’s eyes, and his heart leaped with excitement as the light flashed upon him. It was a manoeuvre, and there would be an attempt to rescue, after all.