“Stuff!” cried Hilary.
“Every man according to his lights, my boy. But as I was saying, your people make war against these people, and they generally act on the defensive. Sometimes they retaliate. This time they have taken a prisoner—you.”
“Yes, hang them!” cried Hilary.
“No, no,” laughed Sir Henry, “don’t do that. No yardarm work, my boy. You see we do not offer to hang you; on the contrary, I offer you a comfortable happy life for a few months on parole.”
“A few months!” cried Hilary.
“Perhaps a year or two. Now what do you say?”
“No!” cried Hilary quickly.
“Think, my boy. You will be kept a very close prisoner, and it will be most unpleasant. We want to use you well.”
“And you nearly smother me; you drag me here in a wretched donkey-cart; and you nearly starve me to death.”
“On chicken and wine,” said Sir Henry smiling. “Come, Hilary, your parole.”