“You love the young Pre— I mean Charles Stuart,” said Hilary quietly, as he still held his old friend’s hand.
“Love, my boy? Yes, Heaven bless him! And so will you when you meet him. He will take to you with your frank young sailor face, Hilary.”
“No, Sir Henry,” Hilary replied sadly. “I have heard that he is generally frank, and an honourable gentleman.”
“All that, Hilary,” cried Sir Henry enthusiastically. “He is royal in his ways, and I am sure he will like you.”
“If he is what you say, Sir Henry,” replied the young man, “he would look with coldness and contempt upon a scoundrel and a traitor.”
“To be sure he would,” said Sir Henry, who in his elation and belief that he had won Hilary over to the Pretender’s cause was thrown off his guard.
“Then why do you talk of his liking me, if, after signing my adhesion to him whom I look upon as my rightful king, I deserted him at the first touch of difficulty? No, Sir Henry, I could not accept your offer without looking upon myself afterwards as a traitor and a villain, and I am sure that you would be one of the first men to think of me with contempt.”
Sir Henry dropped the hand he held in astonishment, completely taken aback, and a heavy frown came upon his brow.
“Are you mad, Hilary?” he exclaimed. “Do you know what you are refusing?”
“Yes, Sir Henry, I know what I am refusing; but I hope I am not mad.”