“Ah, yes!” said the general, laying his hand on Roy’s shoulder. “That is right. Well, as far as I have ascertained, not a man failed to cross the moat after his plunge. There are some ugly wounds, no doubt, but the doctor tells me that my men have suffered worse than yours, and he does not anticipate that any of your brave fellows will even have to stay in bed.”
“That is good news,” said Roy in spite of himself, for he meant to be very stern and distant.
“Better than was given me, my boy. There, come along; breakfast is waiting.”
Roy shrank back.
“I would rather have some bread and water here,” he said.
“Indeed! But I’m not going to feed my prisoner upon bread and water. I find you have plenty here, and that plenty you shall share. Ah! I see you do not want to meet our friend Pawson.”
Roy started violently, and changed colour.
“He will not be with us, sir. Master Pawson prefers to stay in his own chamber, and I am quite willing.”
“My mother?” asked Roy, in agony.
“Keeps to her room, boy. Her women are with her, and she knows that you are safe.”