“Oh, this is hard—this is hard. You rich, and with everything comfortable, while I am poor, and unrewarded for all my labour and risk by an ungrateful Scot.”
“Don’t insult your sovereign, sir!” cried Sir Morton.
“Oh, this is hard—this is hard.”
“Look here, Michael Purlrose, if you had been an officer and a gentleman in distress, I would have helped you.”
“Do you mean to say that I am not an officer, and a gentleman in distress, sir?” cried the captain, clapping his hand to the hilt of his sword, a movement imitated by Ralph, angrily. But Sir Morton stood back, unmoved.
“Let your sword alone, boy,” he said sternly. “You, Michael Purlrose, knowing you as I do of old, for a mouthing, cowardly bully, do you think that I am going to be frightened by your swagger? Yes, I tell you that you are no gentleman.”
“Oh, this is too much,” cried the visitor. “It is enough to make me call in my men.”
“Indeed!” said Sir Morton coolly. “Why call them in to hear me recapitulate your disgrace? As to your appeals to me for help, and your claim, which you profess to have upon me, let me remind you that you were engaged as a soldier of fortune, and well paid for your services, though you and yours disgraced the royal army by your robberies and outrages. All you gained you wasted in riot and drunkenness, and now that you are suffering for your follies, you come and make claims upon me.”
“Oh, this is too hard upon a poor soldier who has bled in his country’s service. Did I not once save your life, when you were at your last gasp?”
“No, sir; it was the other way on. I saved yours, and when I was surrounded, and would have been glad of your help, you ran away.”