Master Pawson gave him a quick look, but he did not speak to him, but to Roy.
“A state of defence!” he said, in a tone of raillery; “what nonsense! and pray, why?”
“On account of the troubled times, sir.”
“Troubled times! What troubled times?”
“Surely you know, sir, who have been bringing my mother news of the revolution.”
Master Pawson’s eyes opened a little more widely, for he was astonished. The boy addressing him seemed no longer the quiet, sport-loving pupil who came up into the tower to read with him and listen patiently while he played on his violoncello, but one who had suddenly been transformed.
“Ah, you mean the tidings of those people who object to some of the king’s orders? But really that has nothing to do with us out here in this quiet, retired place. And you are making it an excuse for all this folly? For shame, Roy! Dressing up the servants, and putting on a sword! Go and take it off, boy, and do not make yourself ridiculous.”
Ben glanced at his young master, whose face was redder than ever, and waited impatiently for him to speak, while Master Pawson turned towards his pupil smilingly, extending one hand to lay upon his shoulder, the other to lay hold of his sword.
“There is nothing absurd or nonsensical about it, Master Pawson,” he said, firmly. “As I have told you, the castle will be put in a state of defence.”
“You mean repair, my dear boy,” said the secretary, mockingly.