“Roy! My boy, these are not your words?”
“No, mother; old Ben Martlet said something of that kind to me this morning.”
“Does he not know, then, how serious it is?”
“Serious? What do you mean by serious?”
Lady Royland drew a deep breath, and laid her hand upon her side as if in pain.
“Why, mother,” repeated the boy, “what do you mean by serious?”
“This trouble—this rising, my dear. We have had no news, but Master Pawson has had letters from London, and he tells me that what was supposed to be a little petty discontent has grown into a serious revolution.”
Roy gazed in his mother’s troubled face as if he did not quite comprehend the full extent of her words.
“Well, and if it has, mother, what then?”
“What then, my boy?”