“No doubt he will,” said the secretary. “But you were saying something about the armoury. Shall I have to see to the men’s weapons being served out?”
“No,” said Roy, merrily. “I want you to select a helmet, breastplate, and back-piece to fit you, and a good sword.”
“Oh, no, no!” said the secretary, quickly. “I am not a man of war.”
“But you’ll have to be, while you are on guard.”
“Not like that. I might wear a good sharp sword; in fact, I did pick out one, and I have it in my room.”
“Well done!” cried Roy, clapping his hands. “There, mother, who’s ever going to think of surrendering when Master Pawson makes preparations like that.—I say, don’t be too hard on the enemy, sir. Try and wound; don’t cut off heads.”
“Ah, you are making fun of me, Roy! But never mind. Don’t you forget that by-and-by, when the fighting’s over, I shall take my revenge.”
“What—over lessons? Very well. I’m having a capital holiday from the old Latin.”
The bent of the conversation turned, and the dinner ended in a very cheerful manner, for as time went on, Lady Royland could not help feeling hopeful. For want of the necessary war-material, the enemy seemed to be able to do no more in the way of a regular siege, and their efforts with the battery were becoming somewhat relaxed. No more men had been injured, and the sufferers in hospital were doing well. In fact, the general opinion in the castle was that before very long the enemy would, if they found they could not starve the defenders out, give up the attack, the castle being too hard a nut to crack.
That evening, while the firing was going on in a desultory way, Roy visited the hospital, meeting the secretary on the way.