“Not see it?” said Lady Gowan softly; and her tears fell fast upon the letter, as she pressed it to her lips. “Yes, Frank, you would have done the same. But no; they will not—they dare not punish him. The whole nation would rise against those who took vengeance upon the brave act of the gallant boy.”
That evening the problem of their future was partly solved by another letter brought by hand from the Palace. It was from the Princess, and very brief:
“I cannot blame you for what you have done, for my heart has been with you through all your trouble. At present you and your son must remain away. Some day I hope we shall meet again.
“Always your friend.”
Chapter Forty Six.
Au Revoir.
About a fortnight after the events related in the last chapter a little scene took place on board a fishing lugger, lying swinging to a buoy in one of the rocky coves of the Cornish coast. A small boat hung behind, in which, dimly seen in the gloom of a soft dark night, sat a sturdy-looking man, four others being seated in the lugger, ready to cast off and hoist the two sails, while, quite aft on the little piece of deck, beneath which there was a cabin, stood four figures in cloaks.
“All ready, master,” said one of the men in a singsong tone. “Tide’s just right, and the wind’s springing up. We ought to go.”