Margaret took it, and the procession moved on again. Master Freake linked his arm in mine, and we walked on together.
"You've had adventures, I hear, since we parted, Oliver."
"I fell into the claws of poetic justice," I answered, "and, having failed as a real highwayman, nearly hanged as an imaginary one."
He laughed. "Well, keep out of the sergeant's claws. He's only five miles off with a brace of his dragoons, but little Dot is watching him. The time to deal with him is not yet. Wait till his lordship of Brocton joins him. What do you think of the Prince?"
"I would not have believed a prince could be so likeable, sir."
"I am, and shall remain, a mere observer," he said, "a mere tracker-down of ten per cent on good security, but I don't mind admitting that, prince for prince, I prefer this young gentleman to the fat, snuffy, waddling, little drill-sergeant he's trying to displace."
"You know the King, sir!"
"Well, and I know his weak spot, too, which is more important for our purposes. If His Gracious Majesty went to bed to-night with as many guineas in his pocket as that"--he jingled his loose coin vigorously--"he'd sleep in his breeches."
On the way to Exeter House the Prince recovered his high spirits, and even kept us waiting in the hall while he continued some lightsome argument Margaret had led him into. At last he broke it off, laughing.
"Mr. Freake will think me an idle princeling for this, madam," he said. "For your offence in thus hindering our matters of state we commit you to ward, and straightly charge our loyal subject, Master Wheatman, to hold you safe in keeping till after supper, when we will undertake to show you that our Highland reel can be as graceful as your Italian fandango."