Nic was right: the Captain was furious, and the servants, from William Solly to the youngest gardener, were what they called “tongue-thrashed,” Captain Revel storming as if he were once more rating his crew aboard ship.
“They all heard, Nic, my boy,” he said to his son. “I believe they knew the scoundrels were coming, and they were too cowardly to give the alarm.”
This was after a walk down to the pool, where the water was clear and still save where a little stream ran sparkling over the shelf of rock instead of a thunderous fall, the gathering from the high grounds of the moors.
“I’m afraid they heard them, father,” said Nic.
“Afraid? I’m sure of it, boy.”
“And that they did not like the idea of your getting mixed up in the fight.”
“Ah!” cried the Captain, catching his son by the shoulder; “then you knew of it too, sir? You wanted me to be kept out of it.”
“I do want you to be kept out of any struggle, father,” said Nic.
“Why, sir, why?” panted the old officer.
“Because you are not so active as you used to be.”