“Oh,” cried Andrew, “you are letting your chance go by. Well, perhaps it’s better, and it will give me time to send a message to warn the dear old dad. No, that wouldn’t do, because he would at once settle that it was your doing, and then—well, I should have signed your death-warrant, Franky. It would be all over with us both, and pretty soon. You first, though, for our people wouldn’t stop for a trial. I say: feel afraid? Somehow I don’t. Perhaps that will come later on. Sure to, I suppose; for it must be very horrible to have to die when one is so young, and with so many things to do. Going?”
“Yes,” said Frank gravely, as he turned away.
“Good-bye, then. Perhaps we shan’t see each other again.”
A peculiar thrill ran through Frank, and his heart gave one great throb. But he did not turn round. He went out of the room, to go somewhere to be alone—to try to think quietly out what he ought to do, and to solve the problem which would have been a hard one for a much older head, though at that moment it seemed to the boy as if he had suddenly grown very old, and that the present was separated from his happy boyish days by a tremendous space.
Chapter Eleven.
Another Invitation.
Several days passed, and at each fresh meeting Andrew Forbes looked at his fellow-page inquiringly, as if asking whether he had spoken out yet; but the lad’s manner was sufficient to show that he had not, though Frank was very cool and distant when they were alone.
Then Andrew began to banter his companion.